Dancing With Demons
by BallinBlonde21
Summary: The notoriously sadistic leader of The Shadowhunters has been propositioned with a union between his gang and the rival Demons. What happens when Jace honors his friend's request? What happens when he begins to question his lifestyle? What happens when that lifestyle tears away his only connection to his humanity? I don't own TMI etc etc. M for language/lemons/violence
1. Chapter 1

_Hello, hello, hello! For those of you new to the story, welcome! For those of you new to me, welcome! For those who've been to this story before, welcome back, and to those who have been with me since the beginning, I am eternally grateful for your support and patience and understanding._

 _I've been struggling with this story and how to tell it. As some of you know, I lost all my outlines, notes and chapters for this story when my laptop broke a few months ago. Rereading it, trying to remember all the places I wanted it to go, there were some things that I wasn't happy with, some things I wanted to add or change._

 _So I've decided to edit and re-upload my chapters. The general storyline has not changed, so feel free to skip these chapters right to the new one, but I've definitely added some additional content, some direction, and some fluff. :)_

 _During my hiatus, I've been writing, working on other projects, and wrestling with a part of my past that I've not yet been strong enough to deal with, but I'm hoping to be back and better than ever, and hold myself accountable for updating!_

 _Thanks for sticking with me through thick and through thin, just like we stick with our faves from the Mortal Instruments. 3_

 _I'm putting the same A/N at the beginning of all updated chapters, so if you're reading this right now, feel free to skip it every time following. I love and appreciate every single one of you. And for whoever needs it, you are not your past. You are not the wrongs done to you. You are worthy and strong and so entirely perfect. Please know that._

 _Love you all._

* * *

 **Dancing With Demons**

 **Chapter 1: A Demon Deal**

 **Song: Blood / / Water - grandson**

* * *

"Boss." The word still sends a shiver down my spine.

It's silly, really. It's just a word, a title, one that's been used to address me since my seventeenth birthday. You'd think I'd be accustomed to it now, to the men working tirelessly beneath me, keeping operations smooth as I sit in my penthouse office, looking down at the city I've inherited, at the kingdom I rule.

Instead, the word makes me jump in my seat a little, warily eye the room for the man who'd raised me, who'd made me. Boss had been my father's name for as long as I could remember, a term that had long been associated with the feared tyrant, described by national news outlets as the man whose eyes were as blue as the seas and as black as hell itself.

He'd been Stephen Herondale, leader of the Shadowhunters. It was a mafia, a gang with foundations in Europe, dating back to my grandfather's great grandfather, who'd built carved a domain overseas and whose descendants brought organized crime to the New World.

But Stephan, he was the most ruthless of them all. He'd created a monopoly on gunrunning, on drug trafficking. He turned the Shadowhunters into an empire, with strongholds in major world cities. He'd turned crime, violence, and sex into an industry, capitalizing on the seven deadly sins.

"Morgenstern is on the phone. He's asking for you." I finish the last of my scotch, rolling the bottom of the tumbler along my mahogany desk. How many lives had that man destroyed from this leather chair? How many people had he damned to hell?

I slowly roll my attention to the prick in my office—Mark Blackthorn. If I were my father, I'd have knifed the guy simply for his impatient tone, but instead, I probe my chipped tooth with my tongue—a gift from Isabelle—momentarily sidetracked as I wonder how the leader of the Demons found my phone number.

"What did we say about knocking, Mark?" I ask, bored. He's filling in for the secretary I'd fired a few days ago, and the transition from field to desk is not suiting him. The green-eyed man sighs heavily, muttering the same line I'd given him two days ago when he'd burst in without permission. "And where the hell is Alec?" Before Mark even opens his mouth to answer, I accept the outstretched iPhone, waving this man away.

I eye the door, a habit picked up from years of watching my father attend to secret business in the walls of this office. Ensuring it is securely shut, I accept the call.

"Valentine, to what do I owe this pleasure?" My voice drips venom, indicating that I do not take kindly to the calls from the likeness of him. If my father was Lucifer, Valentine Morgenstern is Satan. The Demon's main source of capital has become sex trafficking, due mostly to the Shadowhunter's reign over the other areas of illicit dealings. Any face on the wall of missing persons at NYPD is surely to be found in the clutches of Valentine or his buyers, if they're not already six feet under.

"It's Jonathan, actually," a familiar voice responds, lacking the disgust so often heard in his father's. A spitting image of his father, Jonathan and Valentine Morgenstern couldn't be more different. I allow a lazy smile to spread across my face, leaning back in the chair and tapping my glass against the desk. "Look, Jace, I know you don't owe me any favors, but I could really use one right now."

He's piqued my interest, and I tap the ashes of my cigar in the ashtray before me. I don't exactly smoke them so much as light them to keep up pretenses. My father smoked while leading the Shadowhunters, as had his father before him. It's become a sign of power, of holding control over so much that you can even cheat your own death. I merely followed suit. "You have my undivided attention."

There's always something enticing about people owing you, especially those so deeply in enemy lines. Despite our secret friendship, Jonathan and I have never asked anything of each other. With competing families and businesses, it's not like there's much we can offer each other. Inside information would be betrayal—mutiny, even—and as the leader, actions like that would reflect poorly on me, maybe even cause a means for uprooting the hierarchy and starting an entirely new line of leaders. There's not much Jonathan can ask of me, short of placing my own head on the guillotine, but I listen anyway.

"I'm calling to set up a parley on behalf of Valentine. He wishes to reach a peace agreement." It does not go unnoticed that Jonathan does not refer to Valentine as his father, another indication of Jonathan's loose loyalty to the Morgenstern name and to the Demons.

"The Shadowhunters do not need peace with the Demons," I reply blatantly. We are not at war with them, but we are not friends. The Demons already long proved that they are terrible at keeping promises. I look at the jagged scar slicing up my forearm, shaped like the sickle that made it.

Jonathan sighs heavily, and I realize this is no longer a business conversation between gansters, but a phone call between old friends. "My favor isn't about what the Shadowhunters do or don't need. Hell, it isn't even about the Demons…" He trails off, and I decide to wait patiently to continue. There's no power in guessing, especially incorrectly. "He's going to offer you my sister's hand." I stop myself short of retorting _severed?_ because the idea of lopping off someone's hand and offering it as peace is a bit revolting, even for me.

Instead, I furrow my brows at this strange turn of events, pulling a long drag from the cigar. It burns my lungs on the way down. I don't particularly like the feeling, but I don't _dislike_ it. I've just become accustomed to it, much like most things in my life. "You need to start thinking about legitimate heirs," Jonathan continues, heedless, "and Valentine has only ever used Clary to increase his power." I nod, though he can't see me.

The rule of legitimate heirs is a remnant of the Shadowhunter's strongly Catholic roots, an old requirement that no one has found the time or energy to attempt to change. It's not that leaders can find love in this business. Because loved ones are only weaknesses in the eyes of our enemies, and leaders cannot afford to be weak. Jonathan is right. I do need to start thinking about heirs. I need to strengthen my place as leader by continuing the line. "I'd like you to accept his offer, Jace."

"Are you giving me your blessing, Jonathan? I'm blushing," I reply sarcastically. "Look, Jon…you know who I am…what I've done…are you _sure_ this is something you'd want?" There's a forced laugh on the other end. Jonathan knows how crazy this sounds, too.

"She's been through hell, and Valentine thinks she's losing her use. There's no telling what he might do when he decides she has." I've never really put much thought into getting married, though I knew one day that I'd have to. I've also never met Valentine's daughter, who presumably shares the same startling black and white coloring of her father and brother. I suppose my sons wouldn't be too hard on the eyes if they were a mixture of myself and Jonathan, though those black eyes have proved to be quite unsettling.

"When?" It's not an agreement, but I can almost feel Jonathan's hope, tangible through the telephone.

Our friendship runs deeper than the spoiled blood of our grandfathers' feuds, thicker than the dividing enemy lines. Unbeknownst to our fathers, Jonathan and I had met in our college years, at a bar in Budapest while studying abroad. We'd cemented our friendship before even discovering we were the heirs to rival gangs. As most younger generations do, we'd admitted that we thought the wars of our ancestors were ridiculous, that both groups would prosper more from an alliance than a fight.

Which is exactly what is happening right now.

Except Jonathan isn't exactly setting it up.

Valentine is.

And when dealing with Valentine, one can never be too careful with their actions.

"Tomorrow night. Please, Jace, don't make me beg."

A slow smirk tugs at one side of my mouth. "Why not? You're pretty familiar with being on your knees—"

"I'm really regretting asking you to marry my sister," Jonathan deadpans, and I chuckle deeply, allowing, for just a moment, my façade to slip, allowing myself to pretend that I'm just a normal person with normal friends and normal problems.

A sharp knock on my door sobers me.

"I'll be there," I affirm, hitting the end button before he can even respond, placing my phone face down on my desk and beckoning the knocker in.

"What the fuck have you been doing?" I ask as I immediately recognize my second, though my words lack their usual harsh ring. His dark hair is misshapen, his black sweater slightly askew on his slim frame. "Or maybe I should have asked _who_ you've been doing."

My brother, usually so composed, with unreadable ice blue eyes and a stern face, blushes a violent red, stammering a few syllables before I decide to put him out of his misery. "Never mind that. There's been a new development. We need to move the delivery tonight. Put Max on it."

"Do you think he's ready?" Alec asks, his eyes bulging slightly. He'd been preparing this delivery for the past month, plotting and planning and analyzing the timetables perfectly. Uprooting his entire plan has cocked his axis, but I merely shrug.

"I guess we'll find out." There's a defeated look on his face before I clear my throat. "But first, I need you to come with me. I'm going to need a new suit."


	2. Chapter 2

_Hello, hello, hello! For those of you new to the story, welcome! For those of you new to me, welcome! For those who've been to this story before, welcome back, and to those who have been with me since the beginning, I am eternally grateful for your support and patience and understanding._

 _I've been struggling with this story and how to tell it. As some of you know, I lost all my outlines, notes and chapters for this story when my laptop broke a few months ago. Rereading it, trying to remember all the places I wanted it to go, there were some things that I wasn't happy with, some things I wanted to add or change._

 _So I've decided to edit and re-upload my chapters. The general storyline has not changed, so feel free to skip these chapters right to the new one, but I've definitely added some additional content, some direction, and some fluff. :)_

 _During my hiatus, I've been writing, working on other projects, and wrestling with a part of my past that I've not yet been strong enough to deal with, but I'm hoping to be back and better than ever, and hold myself accountable for updating!_

 _Thanks for sticking with me through thick and through thin, just like we stick with our faves from the Mortal Instruments. 3_

 _I'm putting the same A/N at the beginning of all updated chapters, so if you're reading this right now, feel free to skip it every time following. I love and appreciate every single one of you. And for whoever needs it, you are not your past. You are not the wrongs done to you. You are worthy and strong and so entirely perfect. Please know that._

 _Love you all._

* * *

 **Dancing With Demons**

 **Chapter 2: Dealing Death**

 **Song: Ready for the Devil – Vision Vision**

* * *

Wrath.

That's the sin I'm dealing tonight, I decide, as I look out on the wooden crates filling the warehouse, stacked and prepped to be loaded into the nondescript shipping trucks for tonight's delivery. My men work tirelessly, unknowing that they are beneath my scrutinizing gaze. I watch a group pry open a box to inspect the cargo, turning a matte black, military grade weapon over in their hands, ensuring it lacks a serial number and that it matches the vest of ammo alongside it.

I'm not a religious man. If I were, surely, I wouldn't be supplying the mechanisms with which criminals and sadists act upon their anger. More specifically, I wouldn't be auctioning off merchandise—most of which a man can use to single handedly kill an entire village—to the highest bidder, to an array of dealers who aim to sell to anyone with cash, despite their intentions, their violent histories, their likelihood to use these weapons to take someone's life.

A normal man might feel ashamed, or, at the very least, guilty, for weaponizing these villains, but it's all business to me. I've never had to comfort myself, but if I did suddenly feel the need, I could take solace in the fact that the people losing their lives to these bullets are likely sinners themselves, falling victim to lust, or gluttony, or greed.

There are no perfect humans in this world.

And we're all going to die anyway.

"Everything's right on schedule boss," Alec says, clapping a hand on my shoulder. He hadn't asked why I'd purchased a brand new, black Armani suit earlier tonight, or why I'd sent it off to be pressed by tomorrow, and I hadn't offered up any answers. I could see the questions in his eyes, in his expression, but like my father had trained me to be ruthless in both life and combat, his had taught him to bite his tongue, that some answers weren't meant for his ears and that some questions could get him killed.

"And the drop points?" I ask, turning to face him and leaning backward against the railing. Our shipments have been running into a bit of turbulence on the streets lately, though it has been impossible to tell who has been causing it.

"Cleared," Alec responds, checking a message on his phone before looking toward the sound of approaching footsteps.

A brown-haired teenager with a Yankees cap and an easy smile strolls up beside them, bracing his hands against the railing and looking at the stock below, releasing a slow whistle. "What's up, Boss?" he greets flippantly after peeling his eyes from the view below. "Alec," he adds after a moment, like he hadn't even noticed his older brother.

"Max," Alec bites out sternly, jerking his head in my direction with frantic eyes as I force myself to bite back my grin.

"Oh, right, my bad," he says, pushing off the railing and falling into a dramatic bow. "What is up, your mighty holiness? Shall I fall to my knees and suck your dick while Alec wheezes a beautiful symphony?" Alec whacks him upside the head, and I can't suppress my smile any longer. Max snickers as he shifts the cap Alec had knocked askew, turning it backward over his hair.

Seventeen is such a strange age.

I ran my first solo recon at seventeen, infiltrating the Demon's lair and collecting the stock they'd stolen from us. By seventeen, I'd killed twenty-three men, etched twenty-three tallies along my ribs. I'd watched the cancer take my mother, whither her down to skin and bones. I'd identified my father's severed head.

And here Max Lightwood is, walking around without a care in the world, blabbering endlessly about girls and football and school. There's still a light in those blue eyes, not covered in a hard layer of ice like Alec's, a purity that had been quenched from mine before I was old enough to understand the consequences of my actions.

If I were to allow any emotion to seep in, this is where I'd feel the shame. When I take a legacy, a child born into this life, and shove them from the nest, I force that light from their souls and send them catapulting into darkness.

Max has never had a choice.

Just like Alec, just like me—the Shadowhunter life has always been expected of him. It's all he's ever known.

But I can't make decisions with these emotions. I can't lead with a weak and conflicted heart.

It's Max's turn to fight or fail, to do or die. It is his baptism and his christening. It is his turn to prove himself as a true asset to the Shadowhunters.

And Angel help him if he fails.

I take one last, long look at my men, at the boxes they've managed to put on the trucks. "I expect to have confirmation of delivery by two in the morning," I order, refusing to look at either of the brothers, _my_ brothers. Tonight, I will shove Max from the tree. What he chooses to do from there is not my problem.

At least, that's what I tell myself.

"You got it, Boss," Max responds, but the door is already swinging shut behind me.


	3. Chapter 3

_Hello, hello, hello! For those of you new to the story, welcome! For those of you new to me, welcome! For those who've been to this story before, welcome back, and to those who have been with me since the beginning, I am eternally grateful for your support and patience and understanding._

 _I've been struggling with this story and how to tell it. As some of you know, I lost all my outlines, notes and chapters for this story when my laptop broke a few months ago. Rereading it, trying to remember all the places I wanted it to go, there were some things that I wasn't happy with, some things I wanted to add or change._

 _So I've decided to edit and re-upload my chapters. The general storyline has not changed, so feel free to skip these chapters right to the new one, but I've definitely added some additional content, some direction, and some fluff. :)_

 _During my hiatus, I've been writing, working on other projects, and wrestling with a part of my past that I've not yet been strong enough to deal with, but I'm hoping to be back and better than ever, and hold myself accountable for updating!_

 _Thanks for sticking with me through thick and through thin, just like we stick with our faves from the Mortal Instruments. 3_

 _I'm putting the same A/N at the beginning of all updated chapters, so if you're reading this right now, feel free to skip it every time following. I love and appreciate every single one of you. And for whoever needs it, you are not your past. You are not the wrongs done to you. You are worthy and strong and so entirely perfect. Please know that._

 _Love you all._

* * *

 **Dancing With Demons**

 **Chapter 3: Deepest Hell**

 **Song: Way Down We Go - KALEO**

* * *

There's no knock at my door, no words called out to signal his presence, just the sound of the doorjamb giving way, the wooden threshold cracking against the already busted drywall as he appears in the opening. He's lit from behind, casting his face in shadows as he stalks up toward me like the demon he is.

My heart pounds against my ribcage, begging for release from what is to come, but I still it, forcing my tense muscles to relax, knowing any sign of fear will only arouse him further, only prolong his time with me.

So I trail his movements with dead eyes, having long ago learned to disconnect myself from reality, knowing the moment he bursts through that door, I must retreat. I must become a shell within myself, retreating to the furthest depths of my consciousness until this body is no longer mine, until I'm so far removed from the torture that it can't hurt me any longer.

He seats himself at the edge of my bed, flicking a lighter to the cigarette dangling from between his lips. I choose to watch the white paper burn, curling black as the center glows orange. He exhales slowly, gray smoke curling upward into the air, spreading out along the ceiling, looking for a way to escape. I mock it silently, knowing it, too, will fail in its quest, until it stretches itself so thin it disappears.

That's what I've taken to doing, after years of men calling on my company, barging into my room without warning, demanding to be sated, fulfilled. Escape has always been futile, as is fighting. The Demons own me. They'd find me. And if they were feeling merciful, they'd kill me. So instead, I stretch my reality so thin that time becomes a circle, that I can live in the moment before his entrance until he collapses beside me, breathless and spent.

I can't feel him slide the camisole over my head, the jeans down my legs. I can't feel his breath against my neck, his fingers digging into my skin as he ravages me to his heart's content. I can't feel my skull cracking against the headboard or hear the sound of my ribs giving way to the pressure of his hands. I can't feel anything except peace as he finishes, all movement stilling as he falls to the side of me, lacing his fingers behind his head, pulling another drag from his cigarette.

I don't bother pulling myself back out just yet, waiting for the moment he reaches for his jeans, sliding them over his slender hips and disappearing to wherever he'd come from. I'm so far within myself I don't feel him shift, don't notice his eyes landing on something important.

"The Boss sent you into the field today?" he inquires, his fingers absently rifling through the file I'd so stupidly left out on my bed. The serene bubble I've settled into explodes at his words. Sebastian has never wanted to talk, not before, during, or after. He usually snuffed out his cigarette—usually on my inner arm—and left.

This time, I'm wrenched back too soon, gasping as the pain sets a fire in my body, leaving me as if I'd been run through by a train. I gasp for air, a startlingly strangled noise as I reach down and grip one of my sides, feeling my bones move oddly beneath my skin. Sebastian's dark and ominous eyes watch me expectantly, emotionlessly, like I should sit up and converse with him, as if my bruised and body would allow such a motion.

"Yes," I manage finally, focusing on the memory to stop the black from edging further into my vision. His blood crusted on my face after I'd pulled the knife from my target's back, watching him slump forward into his meatloaf dinner, sending ketchup and cutlery to the floor, joining the blood pooling at his feet.

Sebastian takes another drag from his cigarette, continuing to flip through the file. I see him shake slightly, see the anger bubbling from beneath the surface. "How did _you_ —of all people—find this fucker?" His words are edged like a sword, an unfamiliar, hostile rage flashing through his expression as his fingers turn white around the file.

"What do you—" He throws the flings the file to the side, paper raining down like ashes. My breaths have become strained, both from the fear and the pain in my chest, purple splotches forming along my naked flesh.

"I have been searching for him for _years_. And you find him in one damn day. One day!" He's pulled his cigarette from his mouth, resting it dangerously near to my face.

"He was just a guy that owed Valentine some money," I attempt to placate. "I got lucky—" my words are cut off as his cigarette sizzles against the sensitive skin of my hip. I screw my eyes shut, refusing to make a noise, biting back against my cries.

Crying is weakness. Pain is relative. This doesn't hurt.

I'm lying to myself.

"That was _my_ kill. He was _my_ target." His venomous eyes loom above me in the gray light of dusk, narrowed as he continues to spit insults at me. Like I'd had a choice. Like I'd deliberately stolen his kill.

I don't blink. I don't shrink back. I am too paralyzed beneath his gaze, to trapped in the hell of his fury to even utter a response.

"Roll over," he commands, though his hands flip me onto my stomach before I can even attempt to react. "I haven't seen nearly enough blood today," he growls, a knee on either side of my legs to hold me captive.

Searing pain singes my every nerve as he drags his knife down the length of my back, etching a design into the already marred skin, opening scars that have healed over long ago. I bury my face into my dirty pillow, hoping that it will muffle my screams and suffocate me in the process. Just when I think he's finished, he enters me from behind, gripping my hair to expose my throat to him, the edge of the bloodied blade pressed against my pulse as he finishes once more, the sheets now bathed in red.

He drops my face back into the pillow, chuckling to himself as he pulls on his pants. "You belong to me now. You'll always be mine."


	4. Chapter 4

_Hello, hello, hello! For those of you new to the story, welcome! For those of you new to me, welcome! For those who've been to this story before, welcome back, and to those who have been with me since the beginning, I am eternally grateful for your support and patience and understanding._

 _I've been struggling with this story and how to tell it. As some of you know, I lost all my outlines, notes and chapters for this story when my laptop broke a few months ago. Rereading it, trying to remember all the places I wanted it to go, there were some things that I wasn't happy with, some things I wanted to add or change._

 _So I've decided to edit and re-upload my chapters. The general storyline has not changed, so feel free to skip these chapters right to the new one, but I've definitely added some additional content, some direction, and some fluff. :)_

 _During my hiatus, I've been writing, working on other projects, and wrestling with a part of my past that I've not yet been strong enough to deal with, but I'm hoping to be back and better than ever, and hold myself accountable for updating!_

 _Thanks for sticking with me through thick and through thin, just like we stick with our faves from the Mortal Instruments. 3_

 _I'm putting the same A/N at the beginning of all updated chapters, so if you're reading this right now, feel free to skip it every time following. I love and appreciate every single one of you. And for whoever needs it, you are not your past. You are not the wrongs done to you. You are worthy and strong and so entirely perfect. Please know that._

 _Love you all._

* * *

 **Dancing With Demons**

 **Chapter 4: Unholy Matrimony**

 **Song: Teenagers – My Chemical Romance**

* * *

The sound of a cocking pistol is comforting as I squeeze the trigger and release a bullet into the man's left knee, watching him fold and crumple with a rag-muffled scream. There's fear in his bloodshot eyes, a line of thick, crimson blood smearing up his cheek and disappearing into his mop of black hair. Yet, his eyebrows remain furrowed in a decisive scowl, as if hating me can somehow save him, somehow ease his pain.

"Ai furate de la mine." _(You have been stealing from me.)_ My Romanian is perfect as I flip open the cylinder and load another bullet in the revolver, spinning it theatrically as I aim it between his eyes. _Click_.

"You've been mistaken," he responds in heavily accented English, coolly despite the grit in his teeth. He continues with an elaborate story of excuses, complete with witnesses he claims can corroborate his story. A wicked smile twists its way onto my lips as I wait for his conclusion, feigning patience and understanding.

Being a young boss, with an unassuming reputation and an unscarred face, I am often confronted with half-assed lies and pitiful stories with which people believe can grant them their freedoms. I am thought to be weak, incompetent. Their disrespect is insulting, if not a nail in the coffin, and each kill becomes more gruesome than the next as I set out to make a statement.

Jace Herondale is merciless.

He is not one you should cross.

I let his lies end in another scream as I aim at his unharmed leg, this time the bullet flying from the chamber. As a young leader, I must prove myself. I must be crueler. I must be heartless. I will slowly drain the blood of each traitor until I command respect. I want room to become silent when I enter. I want crowds to quake in fear.

"Interesting story," I muse, filling my revolver with bullets, slowly, deliberately allowing his blood to pool on the concrete, to slowly pull the life from him. "Except my men caught you plucking merchandise from each crate and selling it behind my back." I'd been informed to the treasons when Alec had called to confirm the delivery's success earlier this morning.

I hadn't had time to deal with it until now.

"You will not rule for long," the man growls, spitting blood into the puddle before him. "A reckoning is coming, and the Shadowhunters will fall." This has not been the first threat of dethronement, and it will not be the last. My list of enemies is long if not diverse. I don't play nicely with rival gangs, have never seen the benefit of sharing the splendors of my clandestine monopoly.

I ignore his words, checking my watch instead.

I press my pistol into Alec's steady, calloused hands. "Cut him in pieces and send them in cakeboxes to his family. I can't afford to get blood on my new suit." There's another question in his eyes, undoubtedly wondering why I'd worn the Armani that had been purchased just yesterday to a torture session, but I shrug it off, accepting a dirtied rag to remove the blood from my hands. "Have fun, boys," I call backward, moving my eyebrows suggestively as I grab the keys to my Corvette. The screams disappear when a steel door closes behind me, and another smile tugs at my cheeks.

My message will be heard, loud and clear.

Betrayals will not be met with swift death. I don't deal in mercy. Forgiveness is much too holy for the devil.

I nod at my men as I pass them, a silent instruction not to follow as I slip into my matte black car and melt into the covering of night.

I guide it into an abandoned alleyway in near the given address. I'm early.

The streets are empty at this time of night, so I stroll casually the rest of the way, pulling to a stop just before the marbled staircase of the courthouse. It's an old building, standing defiantly in the city as skyscrapers tower over it, casting it in shadows even at the height of day. It's fitting, really, that it's constantly shaded, covering the illicit activities occurring within its walls.

I can't seem to straighten the lapels of my suit coat as I stand in the pool of light cast down by the lone streetlamp, the evening breeze rustling through my already tousled curls. It brings with it the musky scent of the nearby pond and the sound of honking ducks. I shudder involuntarily, the thought of their bristly mouths and grisly feathers icing over my spine. Yes, even Jace Herondale, formidable leader of the Shadowhunters, has fears. Justly warranted fears, that is, as their beady eyes can pierce any strength of armor, their thick wings and sharp bites enough to send even the bravest of men running. Nothing natural can walk on land, float on water, and fly in the sky.

Don't judge me.

I release my lapels without a second thought, unable to find it within me to care about my appearance, knowing my hair is undoubtedly tousled, my eyes revealing my exhaustion. Instead, I observe my surroundings.

The windows of the courthouse are dark, save for the one office of the crooked judge who Valentine had been able to blackmail into submission. He and I are both pawns in this game, though he intends only to save his own ass. I, against my better judgement and training, am here to aide a friend. We both await the dark limousine that will deliver my future, though I doubt I am as nervous as he is. I momentarily wonder what Valentine is holding over this man's head, causing him to wed off a seventeen-year-old girl to a twenty-three-year-old mobster with a list of kills larger than the highway cemeteries in upstate New York, completely against the young woman's will.

I toy idly with my phone, dodging both calls and messages from my three siblings. Rarely do I exit the compound without sharing my plans. Even more rarely do I deny their attempts to contact me. Valentine had made it very clear that I was to come alone, that nobody should know of the deal transpiring. It's not like he can shoot me down on the courthouse steps and let the streets run red with my blood. I've skillfully sheathed no less than twenty knives, concealed on my person so that no man, skilled or otherwise, could see them. He wouldn't be able to cock his pistol before I buried one between his eyes. I am unconcerned.

Besides, this is _his_ parley, and if word gets out that he's defied the rules, he's signed his own death certificate. Valentine loves his power too much to commit that kind of suicide. He's worked too hard building his empire to lose it all by killing me.

Despite my collected composure, I am unprepared when an engine rumbles up and cuts to my right. I can't see her though the blackened windows of the limousine, and the first to step out is one of Valentine's goons, a barely hidden gun tucked into the waistband of his suit pants, a hard expression on his face. It's not the typical hatred between enemies. No, this expression runs deeper, darker. And when a pale leg appears from within the limo, I can finally see why. It's a possessive look, as he reaches to help the woman from the car. Yet, she shies away from his touch, his dark eyes hard as he rights himself. A satisfied smirk adorns my lips as he glowers at me, his dark skin and hair blending into the shadows surrounding him.

But he doesn't hold my attention for long.

The long, creamy leg extends to a torso, clad in a white, beaded bodice of a wedding dress, followed by two, lace-covered arms. She's nothing I had expected, as she finally emerges, standing like she could sink into the concrete and disappear. The light collects around her like it belongs to her, highlighting the coppery streaks in her pinned, red curls. Her eyes, luminous and green, cut through the night, rimmed in a thick line of kohl, a dusting of freckles tracking over her nose. Her lower lip is trapped between her teeth, eyes dropping to the sidewalk, brows furrowed—it's a worried look, extending far past fearful into the realm of terrified, unlike the confidence that oozes from the rest of the Morgenstern family.

She's beautiful in an innocent way, so unlike the women I usually parade through my house, clad in tight leather outfits, with layers of makeup covering every flaw. There's an ease about this girl, an honesty that is difficult to find when leading a mafia. She has me in a trance, unable to meet her gaze, unable to look away. It's broken when an expensive Italian leather shoe follows her from the limo, Valentine's business face in place as he reaches out for a quick handshake. I carefully close my fingers around his, noting how his daughter cowers in his proximity. _Clarissa_ , Valentine tells me her name. I tell her mine, but she doesn't seem to hear me. There aren't any further formalities as Valentine unceremoniously leads us into the courthouse, using a stolen bank pen to sign myself to this stranger. I don't kiss her, and it seems to ease a bit of her anxiety. She doesn't react as I pull the ring from my pocket, sliding it onto her finger.

"The deal is complete," Valentine comments, dotting the _i_ in his name and shoving the papers back toward the judge. We shake hands again.

He doesn't tell me not to hurt his daughter. He doesn't say anything really as he returns to his limo, no more than fifteen minutes after he'd arrived. I stare as his red taillights disappear, carefully watching the girl from the corner of my eye. She doesn't speak, doesn't move, doesn't _breathe_ until Valentine's disappeared.

And even then, it's only a soft sigh, a slump in her shoulders.

The silence follows us as I guide my Corvette back to my penthouse. The only exchange of words is when I tell her where her bed is, pointing to the room with an opened palm. The oak door closes between us, a physical barrier. I don't let my confusion show as I shuffle to my room, hanging up my suit and shirt before tugging on a pair of gray sweatpants.

I'm drawn to this stranger, despite her cold exterior. It mimics my own. It's as intriguing as it is infuriating. I find myself drifting back toward her, my feet moving on their own accord. I lift my knuckles to rap on her door, but it creaks open slightly, enough to send a sliver of light into the otherwise dark hallway, a pool of warmth at my feet. I can see her through the crack, sitting before her vanity mirror, mechanically pulling pins from her hair and letting it cascade in full auburn waves. She's just a girl, not even eighteen, but being birthed into a lifestyle of crime and sin holds the capability to age anyone, even the most innocent of children.

She shrugs of the long-sleeved lace dress, inspecting herself in a flimsy, silk slip. It's then that I can see just what Jonathan had been talking about. Dotting her skin like kisses, are full, purple bruises, shaped like hands and fingers and other appendages. They wrap around her wrists, her arms. She has a gunshot wound through her right shoulder, the familiar scar tissue covering my own body.

 _She's been through hell_ , Jonathan had said, but I couldn't really grasp what that meant. The gangster lifestyle is hell. It's an accepted fact that we live and die by the sword. I didn't expect to see two black eyes beneath an inconspicuous layer of creams, or the knife scar cutting across the back of her thighs. Her body moves like the ache doesn't bother her anymore, like the pain is all relative.

She must look like her mother, with pale skin dusted freckles and a small, pointed nose between two deep, emerald eyes. It must have been her to give this woman the river of red curls flowing down her back, to warm her cheeks and lips with a pink blush.

I can understand how this woman could be Jonathan's weakness.

But I can't think about that right now. I can't afford distractions, not when my ability to rule has been brought to question, not when my own men might overthrow me.

I step away from the door as she slides the strap of her slip down her shoulder, steadying my heartbeat with several deep breaths before turning back down the dark hallway, away from this captivating woman, away from my own devastating past.

I slide my cellphone from my pocket and dial the number from yesterday. After two rings, Jonathan responds. "It's done," I tell him, my eyes drifting back to where she is. "You owe me."


	5. Chapter 5

_Hello, hello, hello! For those of you new to the story, welcome! For those of you new to me, welcome! For those who've been to this story before, welcome back, and to those who have been with me since the beginning, I am eternally grateful for your support and patience and understanding._

 _I've been struggling with this story and how to tell it. As some of you know, I lost all my outlines, notes and chapters for this story when my laptop broke a few months ago. Rereading it, trying to remember all the places I wanted it to go, there were some things that I wasn't happy with, some things I wanted to add or change._

 _So I've decided to edit and re-upload my chapters. The general storyline has not changed, so feel free to skip these chapters right to the new one, but I've definitely added some additional content, some direction, and some fluff. :)_

 _During my hiatus, I've been writing, working on other projects, and wrestling with a part of my past that I've not yet been strong enough to deal with, but I'm hoping to be back and better than ever, and hold myself accountable for updating!_

 _Thanks for sticking with me through thick and through thin, just like we stick with our faves from the Mortal Instruments. 3_

 _I'm putting the same A/N at the beginning of all updated chapters, so if you're reading this right now, feel free to skip it every time following. I love and appreciate every single one of you. And for whoever needs it, you are not your past. You are not the wrongs done to you. You are worthy and strong and so entirely perfect. Please know that._

 _Love you all._

* * *

 **Dancing With Demons**

 **Chapter 5: My Demon**

 **Song: Oblivion - Bastille**

* * *

I clutch the quilt tightly against my breast as my feet carry me listlessly through the drafty halls of this foreign mansion. I drift silently as a ghost, projecting the same aurora of loneliness as I hide behind a thick veil of red curls. I relate to those lost souls, the ones residing in limbo, forced to wander aimlessly until they discover what is tethering them to this earthly realm, neither something nor nothing. My life has taught me that I am merely an object, a tool in the cruel world where debts are paid in sex, where virginity is a fluid concept made by men to appease their desires, and that the same men will do anything to steal that precious ideal from you, anything for a few seconds of love and attention.

I don't often let my past creep into my consciousness, but the echo of silence in these empty hallways mimics the darkness of my dreams, memories flooding back, targeted like a missile. I am not plagued by their groans and grunts of passion, by the way they lay their hands on me, marking me in purple and red to stake claim to my skin, leaving scar after scar as a token of our time together. I'm haunted only by their eyes, cutting through the quiet, lonely midnight like headlights in the distance, a truck carrying nothing but misery and grief. Many sets had crashed into mine—some like sapphires, a deep blue that under other circumstances I may have desired to drown in. Some where reflections of green pastures, others like melted chocolate. Their glaring differences have been muted by the striking similarities. Each pair seemed to have been swallowed in darkness. Eyes are windows to the soul, but what happens when there is nothing to see? What reflects in the eyes of a man who took a girl, barely fourteen, against her will, and made her his own through her strangled sobs?

I roll my eyes toward the ceiling, my chest heaving in attempt to keep the tears at bay. I've come to learn that crying accomplishes nothing aside from displaying weakness. It's like handing an array of weapons to the ones seeking to kill you. My eyes have run eternally dry, a childhood with Valentine made certain of that. I have only one true weakness anymore, and I must protect it with my own life.

A heavy hand falls onto my shoulder, and I grasp it, leveraging my weight to yank the attacker over my shoulder, my quilt pooling at my feet in the process. Air gusts from his lungs as he lands on his back, looking up at me not in pain, but with amused, molten eyes. "Jace," I breathe, not in awe but in contempt. It's the first time I've said his name, and I can't say I dislike how it feels on my tongue. I release his wrist, though I refuse to help him back to his feet. "You shouldn't sneak up on people like that."

"Who taught you to fight like that, love?" he dusts off his sweatpants, hovering above me in his entire, shirtless glory, making it too difficult for me to growl at his pet name. It's surprising that he, too, has found sleeplessness on this night, that in the expansive labyrinth of hallways and floors in this penthouse mansion, our paths have crossed.

I knot my arms across the sheer night gown flowing over my slender flame, watching his eyes follow my movements, lingering a moment too long. "I am a Demon. I have enemies." Jace's smirk drops into a scowl, but he quickly smooths it over, nodding his head at the diamond ring glittering on my finger. When he'd slipped it on earlier that night, it had felt like a noose, slowly tightening around my neck, another vicious leader sinking his claws into me, claiming me.

"You are a Shadowhunter now." His voice is soft, but his words are firm. A warning, I recognize as his golden eyes flash once more. It's a look I am familiar with—territorial and fiercely protective. It's a look I often found in Jonathan's onyx irises as I was wrapped in leather and shipped into the streets. "What has you restless?" he asks with a gentleness that is strange for a ruthless leader. I've heard the stories. I've seen the bodies of our slaughtered men. He's no better than my father. He might even be worse. I drop my gaze to my toes submissively, pulling the quilt back over my shoulders in silence. "Please get some sleep," he whispers down to me, his words blowing a stream of warm air through my hair. It's then I realize how closely we are standing, how the space between us hums with electricity and anticipation how my skin bristles, not in fear but in a desire to be closer to him.

"Yes, I think I will," I mumble hurriedly, following the path I'd tracked from my room to this space, not looking over my shoulder to check that Jace is still there. Because I know he is. I can feel his eyes on my back, burning a hole straight through my soul, scrambling my thoughts and quickening my pace. Emotions are dangerous. Emotions get people _killed_.

To love is to destroy. To be loved is to be the one destroyed.

The door closes behind me no sooner than the memories return with a vengeance, forcing their way into my mind, a movie behind my closed eyes as I curl in on myself.

Her eyes, a mirror image of mine, deep and green like the finest-cut emeralds dripping from her pale neck. Her smile, warm and welcoming despite the resounding gunfire punctuating my every memory. Her fingers, long and stained with paints, wrapping around my hands to keep them warm.

I cover my mouth to muffle the dry sobs wracking my body, vainly trying to erase the image branded on my eyelids, the one no number of tears could ever wash away.

It had been a moonless night in July—one of the nights where the air was so still you could hear the rustling of wings on a firefly. It was the kind of night a normal fourteen-year-old girl would spend with her bare feet pressed in the dewy grass, staring up at the swirling stars, feeling so small yet so special in this grand, beautiful galaxy. Instead, I was being hauled around by my armpits passed along to my father's finest men with laden and drugged footsteps, laying like a carcass as they found pleasure in my glossed eyes and slacked jaw. I don't remember who helped me stumble to the last door, but I remember who stood on the other side.

His dark eyes and dark hair helped him slink into the shadows as I was shoved inside. He emerged from the darkness with retribution, finding joy in marking me with his hands, crushing my bones with bruising force, his pistol pressed against my temple as if I might fight back, as if I could. When he was finished, he shoved me outside onto the ground, naked with a black eye and a chunk of missing hair.

That's where my mom found me, crying into the dirt.

Weak.

I was so weak.

She hadn't known that Valentine was using me to gain compliance from his men. That he'd been doing it for a year now.

And when she confronted him, he shot her, her mouth in an eternal scream.

She loved me.

She loved me, and it killed her.


	6. Chapter 6

_Hello, hello, hello! For those of you new to the story, welcome! For those of you new to me, welcome! For those who've been to this story before, welcome back, and to those who have been with me since the beginning, I am eternally grateful for your support and patience and understanding._

 _I've been struggling with this story and how to tell it. As some of you know, I lost all my outlines, notes and chapters for this story when my laptop broke a few months ago. Rereading it, trying to remember all the places I wanted it to go, there were some things that I wasn't happy with, some things I wanted to add or change._

 _So I've decided to edit and re-upload my chapters. The general storyline has not changed, so feel free to skip these chapters right to the new one, but I've definitely added some additional content, some direction, and some fluff. :)_

 _During my hiatus, I've been writing, working on other projects, and wrestling with a part of my past that I've not yet been strong enough to deal with, but I'm hoping to be back and better than ever, and hold myself accountable for updating!_

 _Thanks for sticking with me through thick and through thin, just like we stick with our faves from the Mortal Instruments. 3_

 _I'm putting the same A/N at the beginning of all updated chapters, so if you're reading this right now, feel free to skip it every time following. I love and appreciate every single one of you. And for whoever needs it, you are not your past. You are not the wrongs done to you. You are worthy and strong and so entirely perfect. Please know that._

 _Love you all._

* * *

 **Dancing With Demons**

 **Chapter 6: Flesh and Scars**

 **Song: Shot Down - Khalid**

* * *

The rhythmic pounding of my fist against the weighted bag steadies my heartrate, sweat beading on my neck and forehead as I reset my stance, slowing the swinging bag as I prepare for another set. It had been a well-deserved miracle that my feet had led me to the training room this morning, the burning muscles a welcomed sensation after another restless night. Each night, I've awaited his appearance, for him to break down my door and take me as many have before. Each night, I am left to myself, curled beneath the heavy quilts and completely alone with the shadows.

I'm not entirely free of restrictions, as I've been corralled into the top two floors of the expansive penthouse. They say it's a safety precaution. I know it's because Jace has not yet told his men he's wed a Demon. His betrothal to the sworn enemy is surely to cause an uprising, or at least become a topic of discussion amongst the house staff. In fact, from what I can deduce, everyone is completely in the dark about my identity. Here, I'm not Clarissa Morgenstern, the heiress of the Demons, the woman shared by the members. Those men _owned_ me. My father _controlled_ me. I was nobody. I was nothing. Here, I am _feared_. People refuse to meet my eyes. They do not speak unless addressed. I am respected. I am powerful.

Of course, it is because I am married to the most powerful man in New York, with connections that reach farther and run deeper than any of my father's, with a sea of loyal men and women willing to die for his cause. I'm just waiting for the catch, for Jace to approach me and force me to carry on with my expected duties, for his eyes to turn black and his mouth to curl into a sneer. I'm waiting for him to become Valentine.

The bag is swinging violently again, and I stop it with a huff, curls falling loose from my ponytail and into my face. "You're throwing from the wrong muscle," a smooth and powerful voice murmurs from behind, and I turn in time to see Jace peel himself from the wall. He's barefoot, dressed only in a pair of black sweatpants, a black baseball cap sitting backward on his tousled curls. He could pass for a regular twenty-three-year old. With his good looks and charming smile, he's the last person to be expected to run an entire gang. Yet there's authority in the way he walks. His voice commands a room. His piercing gaze demands attention. "Here."

I can't help but shiver when his calloused hand grips my waist, sliding under my tanktop to put pressure on my abs. It's electric, the way his skin feels against mine, but I fight my instinct to lean into his touch, instead hardening my muscles and glaring at the bag. "Throw from here." I blush at the squeal I release when he pinches my skin gently, but it quickly turns bright crimson at his knowing chuckle. Steeling my nerves, I turn around and land a punch in his gut, only earning an amused glance when I cradle my injured knuckles against my breast.

This is the first time I've seen him since that night in the hallway—the second time I've attacked him—and yet he doesn't lash out at me, doesn't leave marks on my skin and demand apologies. Instead, he smirks broadly, crossing his arms around his toned chest and arching one perfect blond eyebrow. "Is that all you've got, love?" I shake off his taunt, tugging my sweatshirt back over my head and grabbing the water bottle from the side of the room.

"What do you want?" I growl when I turn around and find him still staring at me, possibly at my ass.

"I came to talk about your status with The Shadowhunters." _How ironic._

"Which is…?" I prompt him to elaborate, certain he can hear my heartrate steadily increasing.

"Well, you are my wife and will be introduced as such at the upcoming gala."

"Gangsters have galas?" I can't hide the incredulousness in my voice. The Demons were lucky to get a Happy Meal, let alone a seven-course meal followed by a dance.

There's a twinkle in his golden eyes. In my experience, it's rare for one in his position to maintain a sense of humor, to cling to any shred of humanity. "Only the successful ones." He laughs once, but I don't return it. He clears his throat. "Anyways, even though you are my wife, you will have to contribute to the Shadowhunters." _Here it is_. I pull my lower lip between my teeth, waiting for a crowd of men to pummel through the door and take me right on the mat. "I was thinking maybe you could start with some office work and move up from there."

"What?" My mouth reacts before my brain. I could leap at this man. I could kiss him. Instead, I stare at him dumbly, blinking much to rapidly for any sane person.

"Just normal secretary tasks, nothing too heavy." He's mistaken my relief for confusion, so I just nod, hoping not to allude to the idea that I'd expected a much, much different job. "As for the wife situation, only my most trusted men are to know of your true identity. The alternative would be far too dangerous." I nod, still waiting for the crushing blow as his lips continue moving. "Because of this, we are going to have to sell the husband and wife bit. I don't want anyone to become suspicious and dig too deeply into our relationship."

"Oh-kay…." I push out despite my chest constricting so much I can barely breathe.

"We will have to go out in public together. Eat dinner together. Normal shit." I nod again.

"I can do that."

His mouth lifts in half a smile, his lower lip pulled between his teeth as he restrains a laugh at something he's said in his mind. "Good. Now let's work on that pitiful right hook." Again, he grips my waist, tighter this time because I'm expecting it. Except it lifts my shirt, revealing the skin of my lower back. There's an intake of breath, followed by a tense silence.

"Who did this to you?" he whispers finally, his lips so close to the skin behind my ear I can feel the air stirring the curls around them, imagining how they might feel pressed against my body, full of heat and passion, erasing all the others that had touched me. His voice is low, dangerous even, casting a fog through my brain that momentarily distracts me from the grotesque carvings on my skin. I'd never been one to leave them on full display, hiding them beneath t-shirts and tank tops, making a secret of my shame. Yet Jace's fingers are gentle as they trail against the thick, jagged scars, deftly maneuvering the mapping across my pale skin, never lingering too long, never faltering.

I can only imagine what he sees—angry red slashes spelling out a name, a name painstakingly carved line by line, a tally of his time with me. He hasn't flinched, hasn't called me disgusting, hasn't banished me from the room. And suddenly, I don't want this crushing secret weighing me down. I don't want to be in this darkness alone. And I don't know if it's because I want him to know, or if I think he deserves to know, or if he's just conveniently _there_ , but I find myself telling him the darkest part of myself. I almost choke on the words, so I keep it short, my eyes downcast to avoid his pitying gaze.

There is no commotion, no stilling of his ministrations as he waits in silence, wondering if I'll continue, to tell him why Sebastian made sure I bore his mark forever. I don't, my arms and chest shaking with the terrifying release. And Jace just stands there, now running his fingers up and down my back, quick and soft like kisses. I can't help but wonder what it might be like to be kissed by this man, a man so strong yet so gentle, so hardened yet empathetic. He's a living contradiction, between his public and private lives. He's tough for his men, brutal, the all-powerful leader. He doesn't let anyone in, doesn't even let anyone close. Alone with me, he's almost fragile. Broken, maybe. Crumbling, definitely. Finally, his hands leave my skin, and I wait for the inevitable, for him to demand divorce from a woman who is anything but pure, from someone so repulsive he can barely stand to look at her.

Again, he surprises me.

"Pain is an old friend." His voice is still quiet, but softer this time, like he's finally confiding the truth as he grabs the neck of his gray t-shirt and lifts it over his head. I've seen him shirtless plenty of times, often too distracted by the hard planes of his chest and stomach, dizzied by the intricate swirling pattern of his inky tattoos. In this low light, I see them, long thin scars, faded to white with age, covering his honeyed skin. They're not the wounds typical of gangsters. He has plenty of those—four bullet wounds, two stabbings break up the webbing of scars, raised and thick. No, these are the scars of torture, strokes shallow enough to ensure life but deep and long enough to instill pain. I can't stop myself from reaching out to trace them, following them to the bullet that pierced just left of his heart.

My breath hitches in my throat when his palm flattens over mine, his heart beating strongly beneath my fingertips. There's clarity in those molten eyes, resolve in his face. I hadn't asked for an explanation, but the words flow freely, his gaze moving to over my shoulder, as if he's not talking to me at all.

"My father led the Shadowhunters, and his father before him." He takes a shuddering breath. I can feel it beneath my palm. "They had many secrets…secrets only the heirs could know." His brows furrow, like he's trying to push out the images matching his words. "At five, I was kidnapped. I didn't know much, but I knew enough to sabotage a few operations. After that, my father made sure no amount of torture could ever get me to speak."

I can't comfort him. I don't know how. Here he is…so honest and open, and my mind is completely shutting down. So instead, I crack a smile. "I guess I don't have the monopoly on bad dads then." Somehow, it had been the right thing to say because the tension from his shoulders lifts, and there's a glint in his eye as he shakes his head.

"No, I guess you don't."


	7. Chapter 7

_Hello, hello, hello! For those of you new to the story, welcome! For those of you new to me, welcome! For those who've been to this story before, welcome back, and to those who have been with me since the beginning, I am eternally grateful for your support and patience and understanding._

 _I've been struggling with this story and how to tell it. As some of you know, I lost all my outlines, notes and chapters for this story when my laptop broke a few months ago. Rereading it, trying to remember all the places I wanted it to go, there were some things that I wasn't happy with, some things I wanted to add or change._

 _So I've decided to edit and re-upload my chapters. The general storyline has not changed, so feel free to skip these chapters right to the new one, but I've definitely added some additional content, some direction, and some fluff. :)_

 _During my hiatus, I've been writing, working on other projects, and wrestling with a part of my past that I've not yet been strong enough to deal with, but I'm hoping to be back and better than ever, and hold myself accountable for updating!_

 _Thanks for sticking with me through thick and through thin, just like we stick with our faves from the Mortal Instruments. 3_

 _I'm putting the same A/N at the beginning of all updated chapters, so if you're reading this right now, feel free to skip it every time following. I love and appreciate every single one of you. And for whoever needs it, you are not your past. You are not the wrongs done to you. You are worthy and strong and so entirely perfect. Please know that._

 _Love you all._

* * *

 **Dancing With Demons**

 **Chapter 7: Secrets Secrets**

 **Nobody Can Save Me – Linkin Park**

* * *

 _Sebastian._ The name leaves a bitter taste in my mouth as I chew on the end of my pen, staring blankly at the computer screen before me. I tell myself it's not because I care about the girl, but rather that this man appears to be a loose end, a ticking time bomb that could blow this plan up in my face.

Clary had left the training room shortly after we'd lapsed into a comfortable silence, wallowing in our own pasts, relishing in the fact that as residents in the darkness, we are not alone. I'd just stared at her retreating form, red slashing my vision like the scars across her back. There's a beauty in that kind of pain, a strength in that kind of suffering. It builds a survivor, scars like armor woven into skin. It hardens a person, steels their nerves against anything because they know no greater shame than that. What is there to fear when one's already faced their biggest demons?

She reminds me of myself—a child, broken by those supposed to protect, torn apart layer by agonizing layer until I lay raw and vulnerable before my torturers. For us, there's no trusting recklessly, no loving blindly. We take only calculated risks, never trusting or loving too much, never giving a person that advantage over us. We wear our armor but hide our scars. We've been burned so now we command the flames.

I've found that I can't keep myself from her doorway, always ajar, showing her drifting listlessly around the room and sketching endlessly on the pads of paper Jonathon had sent over with clothes and necessities the night of the union. I itch to flip through those drawings, to see the world through her eyes, to see myself as she might see me. My mind is doing things it's never done before, always shifting my thoughts to her, my heart leaping in excitement at the thought of crossing her path in the hallway, earning one of her fleeing smiles, possibly exchanging a few words.

We'd decided that she wouldn't move into my actual bedroom until the announcement at the gala, and I could see how much it relaxed her. To have some time. To have some space. And again, I find myself thinking of all the things I could do for her instead of to her. I've already planned to change her current bedroom into an art studio, a space that's just hers, a retreat, an escape.

I'm already willing to go to lengths I've gone for no other, I realize, as I stare down the closed door, waiting impatiently for Simon Lewis to burst through it, hair a mess, eyes feverish, a hole stretching the neckline of his graphic t-shirt. Like clockwork, the door flies open, smashing against the stop bolted into the opposite wall as Simon casts a worried glance in its direction, stopping the backswing with his forearm as he struggles to hold a set of files and his laptop in the other. "Finally," I grumble, leaving it at that. I know he's seeing someone, what with his swollen lips and marks bruising at the base of his throat, but as much as I try to pry into his love life, Simon is a closed book. A side-effect of the job, I guess.

Not that I'll ever admit it, but I feel a sort of fondness for this boy, only two years younger than I, thrown into a life of chaos and destruction. I wave away his excuses as he opens his mouth, patiently waiting for him to sort the files before him and open his computer. I've asked that he bring me the sales logs for my cover businesses for the last six months, though it's all a ruse. I have a bigger mission for him. It's darker. It's personal. "Thank you," I grumble, tapping the papers into a straight line on my desk before stuffing them unceremoniously into my lower drawer where they will wait to be shredded. I fold my hands before me, the pen still clenched in my grip as I struggle to dispel the violent desires flashing through my mind.

Simon's underwhelming appearance grounds me, as I take in the glasses sitting a bit crookedly on his nose, wondering how I'd managed to hire such a nerd. Then, I remember how he'd been able to break through my old firewalls within seconds, discovering my real identity, my true business, unearthing my darkest secrets. "I need you to look into someone for me," I offer casually, knowing this boy, with his small, rat-like features and mousy brown hair does not have the guts to refuse his boss. As expected, he nods eagerly, his dark eyes wide and alert as he taps passwords into his laptop. "His name is Sebastian, and he's linked to the Demons. I need to know everything you can find." Simon's brows furrow as he continues his feverish typing, not looking at the screen as he bravely meets my eyes.

"Are there any more details you can give me?" His words are clipped, concentrated, and I shake my head, putting down my pen and splaying my fingers on the desk before me.

"That's it for now. Just let me know what you can find." Simon nods, lifting himself from the chair and continuing to type with one hand as he blindly exits the room. "Simon!" I call after him, earning a muffled response. "Please send Alec in!"

Alec stumbled through the door a few minutes later, and his jaw has not closed since I told him the news, his blue eyes widening like saucers as they flick to the golden band on my ring finger as confirmation. It's been three days, thirteen hours, and twenty-seven minutes since I met the girl on the dark stairs of the courthouse, since we stood before a judge and signed away our lives to each other. Forty-nine and a half hours that I've kept this secret from my best friend, my confidant, and his reaction is exactly as I had expected. He's become paralyzed, frozen in shock as his brain struggles to form a coherent thought. Silence fills the space between us as I wait patiently, for once not filling the void with sarcasm. But honestly, Alec is like a brother to me. Is it too much to ask for a little support in the single most important and terrifying moment of my life?

"You…Jace Herondale…married?!" Apparently, it is.

The incredulous tone in his voice is warranted, as my reputation is not one of a faithful husband nor passionate lover. My needs have always been purely primal and have been taken care of as such. I've marched woman after woman into numerous rooms in my many hotels, but have never allowed one into my private home, have never stayed the night with them, have barely even told them my name. I've broken more hearts than noses, and I do love a good sucker punch. "To who?" he asks finally at my mere nod as response. I've expected this question, and I have yet to formulate a proper answer.

"Technically, it's _to whom_ , Alec. How the hell did you pass primary school—"

"Jonathon Christopher Herondale, I will strangle you and declare myself leader if you do not answer me." His frustration tinges his tanned cheeks red, and I find myself amused at the idea of Alec trying to wrestle me to the ground. He'd never win.

"Her name is Clary—" before I can offer up a last name, the door to my office swings open, revealing a woman with the same raven-colored hair as the man before me, though her eyes are as black as coal, flickering like sparking embers.

"Jace Fucking Herondale, you better not have gotten married without having me plan your wedding." I throw up my hands in exasperation, grumbling about people using my full name too much today. "I can't believe you'd do this to me!" Isabelle feigns hurt as her hand flutters to her chest. I reply with a dramatic eyeroll.

"Who even let you in here?" Isabelle ignores me, continuing on with her tirade about my ultimate betrayal. "Izzy…IZZY!" I yell to regain her attention. She silences with a glower, and Alec watches us with an amused smile. "We didn't have a ceremony, but I'd like you to plan a celebration to introduce her to the Shadowhunters." Isabelle squeals when I mention the gala, insisting that planning that will be better than any wedding anyway. "In the meantime, Isabelle, can you buy her some clothes and other shit she might need?"

"She didn't _come_ with anything?" she replies incredulously, raising an eyebrow.

"For fuck's sake, Izzy, I didn't _order_ her. Just do what I ask."

When the Lightwoods shuffle from my office, I collapse back into my chair, blowing rogue blonde curls from my face. These secrets are going to be harder to keep than I'd thought.


	8. Chapter 8

_Hello, hello, hello! For those of you new to the story, welcome! For those of you new to me, welcome! For those who've been to this story before, welcome back, and to those who have been with me since the beginning, I am eternally grateful for your support and patience and understanding._

 _I've been struggling with this story and how to tell it. As some of you know, I lost all my outlines, notes and chapters for this story when my laptop broke a few months ago. Rereading it, trying to remember all the places I wanted it to go, there were some things that I wasn't happy with, some things I wanted to add or change._

 _So I've decided to edit and re-upload my chapters. The general storyline has not changed, so feel free to skip these chapters right to the new one, but I've definitely added some additional content, some direction, and some fluff. :)_

 _During my hiatus, I've been writing, working on other projects, and wrestling with a part of my past that I've not yet been strong enough to deal with, but I'm hoping to be back and better than ever, and hold myself accountable for updating!_

 _Thanks for sticking with me through thick and through thin, just like we stick with our faves from the Mortal Instruments. 3_

 _I'm putting the same A/N at the beginning of all updated chapters, so if you're reading this right now, feel free to skip it every time following. I love and appreciate every single one of you. And for whoever needs it, you are not your past. You are not the wrongs done to you. You are worthy and strong and so entirely perfect. Please know that._

 _Love you all._

* * *

 **Dancing With Demons**

 **Chapter 8: Fortified Walls**

 **Song: I'll Follow You - Shinedown**

* * *

"That one's going to bruise," I tell her, probing my abs with my index finger, recognizing the familiar pang of pooling blood. She smiles, unwrapping the purple tape from her knuckles, not looking up at the mark she's left on my abdomen.

"You deserved it." There's pride in her tone, a confidence that had not previously existed. I drop my t-shirt and pass her a water bottle, watching her deftly undo the braid tying back her hair, setting the wild curls free around her freckled face.

She wears her wedding ring on a chain around her neck, balanced perfectly between her breasts. I'd slid it onto her finger a month ago, and I watch her dutifully slip on, day after day. If I hadn't been studying her so closely, I would have never seen her cringe as the weight settled on her finger, the small downturn of her lips whenever her eyes caught the sparkle of the diamond.

I knew what it had to signify for her.

Another man claiming her, owning her.

It reminded her that she'd been a peace offering, nothing more than an olive branch, a strategy in the midst of a war.

 _Here_ , I'd said, presenting her with the understated, golden chain. She'd squinted at it, confused by the gift. There had been a weight visibly lifted from her shoulders when I'd told her that she didn't have to wear the ring in the house.

We've developed a routine since then, one as mundane as any typical newlywed couple, save for the romance—and the sex.

It's not awful, being married to someone you have no attachment to, physical or otherwise. My needs have always been primal, not seeking companionship but rather the release, the euphoria. But I can't deny that I'm becoming desperate. Yesterday, the mom from _Phineas and Ferb_ turned me on.

I sit on the weight bench, balancing one elbow on my knee as I drink from my own bottle.

Instead, I'm slowly coming to know Clary as a person. She doesn't say much, but it's in her mannerisms, in the way she carries herself, how she moves about a room.

She finds joy in the smallest things, like the sun on her face in the morning as she wanders up to my kitchen hair tossed haphazardly into a bun as she pours herself a cup of coffee with a ridiculous amount of cream and sugar, turning up her nose at the dark liquid in my own mug. She throws bread in the toaster because she absolutely despises the eggs that I eat for most breakfasts and lifts her face toward the window, eyes closed. I watch her, pretending to read the news on my phone, taking in her sleepy smile.

At night, I'll return to find her curled up on my sofa, her feet tucked beneath her with a woven blanket draped over her lap. There's a glass of wine balanced on her fingertips—always red—and a different program playing on the television, her eyes glued to the screen with an absurd amount of concentration. Even the sound of the closing door cannot drag her gaze from the reality show.

We don't talk. There's not much to say. But it's easy, the way we've begun to move around together, to revolve around each other. Last week, she started saying goodbye to me before I leave for work. This week, she greets me with a soft _good morning_.

The more space I give her, the more she seems to appear.

"Stop being a baby," she goads, and I realize my hand is pressed to where she's hit me. There's a playful glint in her eye that hasn't been there before, and she pulls her lower lip between her teeth.

And I want to kiss her.

It's not a new feeling, but a desire that's been growing since I'd first lain my eyes on her. That soft, pink pout derails my every thought, drawing me in like a bee to sugar.

I look away.

"Next time, I might hit back," I warn her, but it's halfhearted as I pull my shirt over my head. Part of me wants to mean it, to push her as far away from me as I can, to scare her into submission. I'd been raised by a misogynist, groomed as a superior being, taught that relationships like that are more predictable, easier to control.

And they eliminate weaknesses.

The other, much larger, part of me wants so much more than that. It wants this woman, betrayed by those supposed to love her the most, to feel comfortable around me, to show her that not all leaders are painted in the likeness of her father.

Except I was raised by a man crueler, more loathsome than Valentine Morgenstern. I am a finely tuned, emotionless killing machine. I am a monster with the face of a man. There's not a part of me that knows how to love. I've never felt it, never given it.

But this part of me, however irrational, wants her to find that there's still part of me worth saving, that beneath the hardened armor, that's still a human, a boy yearning for acceptance, for love.

And those thoughts are as terrifying as they are humiliating.

So I refuse to give into them. I strengthen my armor. I bury these feelings beneath layers of concrete. I don't meet those eyes, with their ability to jackhammer through my every defense. I'd give anything for those primitive desire again, anything to fight what this woman is doing to me.

If Valentine's ultimate plan is to use Clary to break into my head and crumble the Shadowhunters from the inside, it certainly has footing. And I can't let it gain momentum.

"I'll see you after work," I tell her, brushing past toward the showers. I can feel her eyes glued to me.

"Have a good day," she all but whispers, in a voice so small, so uncertain, that it fractures the ice around my heart.

With a palm flattened against the door, I heave a sigh before pushing through without further response.


	9. Chapter 9

_Hello, hello, hello! For those of you new to the story, welcome! For those of you new to me, welcome! For those who've been to this story before, welcome back, and to those who have been with me since the beginning, I am eternally grateful for your support and patience and understanding._

 _I've been struggling with this story and how to tell it. As some of you know, I lost all my outlines, notes and chapters for this story when my laptop broke a few months ago. Rereading it, trying to remember all the places I wanted it to go, there were some things that I wasn't happy with, some things I wanted to add or change._

 _So I've decided to edit and re-upload my chapters. The general storyline has not changed, so feel free to skip these chapters right to the new one, but I've definitely added some additional content, some direction, and some fluff. :)_

 _During my hiatus, I've been writing, working on other projects, and wrestling with a part of my past that I've not yet been strong enough to deal with, but I'm hoping to be back and better than ever, and hold myself accountable for updating!_

 _Thanks for sticking with me through thick and through thin, just like we stick with our faves from the Mortal Instruments. 3_

 _I'm putting the same A/N at the beginning of all updated chapters, so if you're reading this right now, feel free to skip it every time following. I love and appreciate every single one of you. And for whoever needs it, you are not your past. You are not the wrongs done to you. You are worthy and strong and so entirely perfect. Please know that._

 _Love you all._

* * *

 **Dancing With Demons**

 **Chapter 9: Demon Science**

 **Song: La Di Da – Lennon Stella**

* * *

My window is white with the season's first frost, a clear and divisive ending to my first fall in the throes of the Shadowhunters. The cold obscures the view of the New York City traffic below, isolating me further as I lean against the upholstered headboard, a sketchpad propped against my knees, attempting to capture the swirling lines, to immortalize the eternal cold that exactly matches what's inside.

But my pencil refuses to draw, resting idly against the paper as I struggle for breath. The patterns, with their twists and turns, look like vines, wrapping around my wrists and ankles, holding me captive. They're like snakes, constricting me, tightening their grip until I suffocate.

I really shouldn't feel this way. I should be grateful that no bruises pepper my skin, that my latticework of scars remains unchanged, the newest ones knit together and fading from red to pink. No men shove through my door in the cover of night, one hand extended toward my throat, the other toward his jeans. Nobody eyes me hungrily, viciously. Nobody spits on my naked body.

And yet, wrapped in thick quilts in the golden glow of a lamplight, I feel lost, alone, frozen to my very core.

I'd never allowed myself to become to comfortable. Not with people. Not with things.

Because everything I'd even shown a sliver of affection toward has hurt me or been hurt. There's security in seclusion, safety in the loneliness. I'd built a cement fortress of solitude, reinforced with lead and guarded by my own steely gaze. I'd created it out of necessity, out of fear and an instinct to survive.

It had served me well, keeping the screams at bay as Valentine deposited my mother's body in an unmarked grave in the corner of a decrepit cemetery. It separated me from the agony of Sebastian trying to claw his way into my heart, knife-stroke by knife-stroke. It scared off the nightmares of what might happen to Jonathan in my absence, of who Valentine might turn to now that his favorite toy had left the Demons.

And yet, I'd been so weak, so foolish in the face of a golden angel, so willing to wrench down these walls and let him barrel in. I'd grown accustomed to our morning rituals—the laughter echoing in the gym, the smiles shared over coffee cups, the god-awful stench of eggs combined with New York's most terrifying man shoveling them into his mouth. I'd started to expect the soft knock on my doorjamb, alerting me to his return from work, to the soft wave goodnight as he strolled past in a pair of sweatpants.

All Jace Herondale had to do was show me an ounce of kindness, and I'd put up a neon _Open_ sign to my heart.

I shove my sketchpad off the bed, the pencil with it, where it embeds itself in the rug and sticks upward. I don't go to the gym. He won't be there. He hasn't been for weeks.

I'd only seen him once, braced before the mirror, blood streaming down the contours of his chest, gaze locked and hardened on his reflection, like he was waging an internal war, like he was losing.

When he noticed me, he slammed the door.

Had I not been well acquainted with masks and armor and determination, I may not have noticed it. But for a moment, so fast I might have imagined it, he looked human. And he looked _scared_.

For as long as I can remember, Jace Herondale has been the villain of my story.

My father and his men were merely the men that delivered my torture, mostly in response to their inability to capture and overthrow the golden-eyed monster across town. The bullets from his guns, fired by his most trusted men, were those that sealed my fate. Each burn, each bruise, each scar is linked to his victory.

For seventeen years he's been a nightmare shrouded in mystery. A man with no face. A man with no weakness. A man that could not be conquered.

And then I met him, with his calloused hands and guarded eyes, with his tousled curls and sly smirk. And it seemed to only solidify everything I'd ever known. He was untouchable. Inhuman. Eternal.

Just like his reach and power, Jace Herondale's life seemed to have no end. He lived my past, present, and future, his fingers dug into the deepest parts of my brain, his actions shaping the woman I am today.

Silent.

Subordinate.

 _Scared_.

And the fact that he, himself, could possibly share one of these sentiments might seem so trivial, so mundane.

But to me, a girl raised under the brutal thumb of a leader that had not experienced an emotion in his entire life, it means the entire difference.

It confirms that I hadn't imagined the humanity in his soft touch, his protective eyes, his kind words. I had not been so desperate for gratification from a man that I dreamt up entire encounters. It meant that he wasn't avoiding me because he didn't care, but because maybe he cared too much.

I kick off my quilts, emboldened in the silver light of dawn as I navigate the hallways, not like a ghost, but rather a soldier, marching to battle, strong and set in my quest. My ring bounces between my breasts, resting beneath the oversized t-shirt I'd stolen from his laundry. Its weight is not that of a prison sentence, but of freedom, of a caged bird ready to soar.

I throw open the door to the kitchen, finding him with a steaming mug in his hand, standing before his floor-to-ceiling windows, watching the world wake up. My footsteps startle him, loud and backed with confidence. I catch my reflection in the window, all determined green eyes and flamethrower hair. He notices, too, turning to face me with an unreadable expression.

Wordlessly, I knock his mug to the floor, hot black coffee spilling into the cracks of the tiles.

"What the—?" And I jump him, my hands gripping his neck as my thighs clamp around his waist. His hands immediately support me, sliding up my back and into my hair. The anger in his eyes dissipates, replaced by something much more familiar, something much easier to handle.

Lust.

I drop back to the floor, backing away and filling another coffee cup. He doesn't look frustrated like I'd expected.

Just slightly amused as he reaches down and retrieves his surprisingly unbroken mug. "What was that for?" His voice is deep, smooth and slow like molasses. Every inch of him is calm, collected, while my heart plays the drums in my chest.

"Just an experiment," I tell him before disappearing again, vowing that this time, he will come to me.


	10. Chapter 10

_Hello, hello, hello! For those of you new to the story, welcome! For those of you new to me, welcome! For those who've been to this story before, welcome back, and to those who have been with me since the beginning, I am eternally grateful for your support and patience and understanding._

 _I've been struggling with this story and how to tell it. As some of you know, I lost all my outlines, notes and chapters for this story when my laptop broke a few months ago. Rereading it, trying to remember all the places I wanted it to go, there were some things that I wasn't happy with, some things I wanted to add or change._

 _So I've decided to edit and re-upload my chapters. The general storyline has not changed, so feel free to skip these chapters right to the new one, but I've definitely added some additional content, some direction, and some fluff. :)_

 _During my hiatus, I've been writing, working on other projects, and wrestling with a part of my past that I've not yet been strong enough to deal with, but I'm hoping to be back and better than ever, and hold myself accountable for updating!_

 _Thanks for sticking with me through thick and through thin, just like we stick with our faves from the Mortal Instruments. 3_

 _I'm putting the same A/N at the beginning of all updated chapters, so if you're reading this right now, feel free to skip it every time following. I love and appreciate every single one of you. And for whoever needs it, you are not your past. You are not the wrongs done to you. You are worthy and strong and so entirely perfect. Please know that._

 _Love you all._

* * *

 **Dancing With Demons**

 **Chapter 10: Breaking Chains**

 **Song: Read Me My Rights – Brantley Gilbert**

 _Pride_. That's the sin I'm working with today, as I pour over the incriminating photographs littering my desk. Except I can't focus on which politician screwed Sally and which murdered Jill. Instead, my fingers are pressed into my temples, trying to forget the way her warm thighs felt against mine, or how her pink lips parted when she tipped her head back to look at me, a crimson waterfall of hair flowing down her back.

That was last Saturday morning. It's Tuesday afternoon, and my mind is still entangled in her damn kiss, the trail of heat her fingers left against my scalp stronger than ever. "Just threaten them all," I growl finally, shoving the stack of images into the awaiting hands of Alec, storming from the office, past the empty secretary desk that a busty blonde used to occupy, though her ass spent more time against the closet wall than her chair. I ignore Isabelle's mandatory greeting, though she doesn't even appear to be awake yet, with a coffee in her hand and drooping eyelids. I'd sent her on a reconnaissance mission last night, though it proved unfruitful as she reported earlier with an empty file folder and a harsh glare.

"Yeah, yeah," I grumble as she turns over her shoulder and barks something about needing to plan the wedding gala soon. She heeds my waving hand as a dismissal and smartly avoids following me into the staircase. I jog down the flights, eager, anxious.

Then I stop myself.

What am I doing?

I'm barely to the last flight of stairs before I hear hurried footsteps following me. "Boss, wait!" I pull to a stop, waiting for Simon Lewis to finish descending the stairs, his arms overflowing with papers, his laptop balanced precariously atop one arm as he sifts through the printed reports, presenting one that's stapled with a slightly wrinkled edge.

"This better be good, Lewis," I growl, still aggravated with myself for my accelerated heartbeat, for the weakness in my thoughts.

He doesn't even acknowledge my distasteful mood, flipping open the coversheet of his writeup and highlighting the key points. "Sebastian Verlac. Thirty-seven. Member of the Werewolves since—"  
"Simon, I said Sebastian with the Demons—"  
"Boss, I know…that's where it gets interesting." I choose to ignore his rude interruption in favo of quick information. "If I go back, there's nothing for the years between 2009 and 2013. This guy, frankly, doesn't exists. He doesn't have any loans, any credit cards, nothing for those four years. He fell off the grid. And then, in 2014, he reappears out of nowhere, as a member of the Wolves—"

"Get to the point, nerd boy." I'm much too tired and aggravated to worry about frivolities such as kindness.

"Well, I did some digging into the pre-2009 stuff, and I found that he used to be affiliated with the Demons. A few side jobs here and there, got caught once but was released due to lack of evidence."

"So Sebastian Verlac—"

"—is a Demon spy in Werewolf territory." I've already started my march back up the stairs, to my office, to my weapons.

"I need an address."

"I've already sent it to your phone," he calls from behind me.

"Remind me to give you a raise," I reply before leaving earshot, knowing that he'll never have the balls to confront me about it. If he does, I'll probably give him a bonus, too.

I gather my weapons, standing at my office window as dusk turns to darkness, a perfect covering for a retaliation crime. My emotions are still dictating my actions, my body completely overrun by a fierce need to protect the delicate redhead tucked safely in bed at my house. There's no time to let my mind regain control, and frankly, I don't want it to.

I want the streets to run red with Sebastian's blood, want to watch the light leave his eyes as he realizes it's me he'll spend his last breath with. I want to hear him scream. I don't know how long I'd been staring at the traffic below me, but as the outflux of cars from the city dissipated, I decide it's time to strike.

I'm in my Corvette minutes later, punching the address into my navigation system, half watching the road, half fumbling with the cellphone in my hand. I get the number punched in after two minutes of struggling and wait for the call to connect.

Jonathan picks up on the third ring, his voice filled with alarm. "Is something wrong with Clary?!" I hold the phone to my ear with my shoulder as I struggle to control my vehicle, the needle on the speedometer creeping past 120 mph.

"What? No, she's fine. Remember how I said that you owe me?" There's a sigh of relief and a grumbling of the affirmative as I swerve around a car, slamming on my horn as its brake lights flash. "Well, I'm going to need to cash in on that."

"Does it have to be at three in the morning? We're not in college anymore. I don't stay up all hours of the night to—"  
"Listen, Jon," I cut him off hastily, maneuvering around a sharp turn. I know our dads were enemies, and our gangs are rivals, blah blah blah, but you're my best friend, and I'm about to do something that I'm probably going to regret—"

"Are you alright, Jace? Do you have a fever?"

"—and I don't want you to talk me out of it. I want you to cover my ass." There's a pause.

"What are you going to do?" I laugh coldly, manically, the speedometer closer to 180 now.

"I'm going to kill Sebastian Verlac."

"Who?" There's genuine confusion in his voice. Valentine hadn't even let his son in on this aspect of the business.

"Verlac, your dad's spy in the Werewolves."

Silence, as expected.

"Jace, there's only so much I can do before my dad will have me killed, you know that right?" I'm nearing my destination, my car reaching its maximum speed. I need to know if Jonathan is in or out.

"I know, Jon, but this guy, this _monster_ ," I spit the word, hatred seeping into my voice, "…he literally _carved_ his name into Clary's back. And I'm about to return the favor, whether I have your help or not."

"What do you need me to do." No hesitation. No doubt. It's not even phrased as a question.

As two of the most wanted criminals in United States history, we share one weakness.

"If Valentine starts digging into it, just cover for me."

"Alright," there's a pause as I go to end the call. "And Jace?" I press it tightly against my ear, steering with one hand as I count street signs. "Make him suffer." I nod, and even though he can't see me, I know he understands. I toss the phone into the passenger seat just as I find my sign.

Red coats my vision as I pull my Corvette to a screeching halt before the small, rundown home just outside the city's limits. There's a light on in the doorway, so I don't hesitate to slam my car door and bang incessantly against the wooden frame, shaking a few pieces of paneling loose from the walls in my haste. There's a cursing and the shattering of glass coming from the other side as I stand in the silver moonlight, watching a sluggish figure drift in front of the windows, making slow progress to the door.

Sick of his pace, I kick it open with the heel of my boot, grabbing the resident by his collar and shoving him against the wall. "Sebastian Verlac?" I ask with authority. He's only a few inches shorter than me, but built like a freight train, with eyes and hair as black as the night sky.

"Who the fuck wants to know?" I smile wickedly, slamming him back against the wall when he tries to wriggle free.

"I'm Jace Herondale." There's a sliver of fear in his eyes as he recognizes my name, the smile on my face getting bigger as his body begins to shake. "I'm the leader of the Shadowhunters, and more recently, Clarissa Morgenstern's husband."

He laughs incredulously. "That whore? You actually married that piece of shit—" I've slammed the handle of the knife into his mouth, and he retches, spitting blood and teeth onto my shoes.

"I'd choose your words very carefully, if I were you," I suggest, smiling at his groan of pain.

He smiles a toothless grin, unyielding in his mission to piss me off. "She was always good for a quick fuck, though. Tell me, does she make that nose when you shove your dick in her mouth, too?" I ignore him, sliding my knife down the front of his shirt, splitting the fabric in two, revealing a tattooed and surprisingly unscarred chest. There's no hesitation in me as I press the blade into his skin, drawing lines deep enough to create steady streams of blood. "You thought that you owned Clary, that you could take away her worth…but the only worthless one here is you."

He lands a punch on my jaw, but I'm unfazed. I don't pause, carving letter after agonizing letter until my hands are slicked in his blood and his screams have ebbed away to satisfying gurgling noises in the back of his throat. He'd put Clary through worse torture, night after night, and here he is, begging for leniency, for mercy. "Where was Clary's mercy?" I spit as tears stream from his eyes. He's weeping openly, but I pay him no mind, stepping backward to inspect my handiwork.

"I've branded you," I tell him, leaning in close to his ear to ensure he's hearting me. "I _own_ you." I don't give him the opportunity to answer before burying my knife in his chest, dotting the _i_.

My blood-slicked fingers leave crimson prints on my iPhone as I dial my cleanup crew, robotically repeating the address as my eyes trail the word imprinted in his chest, a word to bring Clary justice, to hopefully bring her peace.

 _Pedophile_.

Sirens sound in the distance, and I wipe away the prints on the handle of my blade before wiping my hands, too. Nobody will remember Sebastian Verlac. Nobody will cry at his funeral. Nobody will even know he's dead.

It's almost dawn, and I can't help the smile pulling at my lips as I glide my Corvette back into its parking stall, heading up to my office with a renewed sense of peace.


	11. Chapter 11

_Hello, hello, hello! For those of you new to the story, welcome! For those of you new to me, welcome! For those who've been to this story before, welcome back, and to those who have been with me since the beginning, I am eternally grateful for your support and patience and understanding._

 _I've been struggling with this story and how to tell it. As some of you know, I lost all my outlines, notes and chapters for this story when my laptop broke a few months ago. Rereading it, trying to remember all the places I wanted it to go, there were some things that I wasn't happy with, some things I wanted to add or change._

 _So I've decided to edit and re-upload my chapters. The general storyline has not changed, so feel free to skip these chapters right to the new one, but I've definitely added some additional content, some direction, and some fluff. :)_

 _During my hiatus, I've been writing, working on other projects, and wrestling with a part of my past that I've not yet been strong enough to deal with, but I'm hoping to be back and better than ever, and hold myself accountable for updating!_

 _Thanks for sticking with me through thick and through thin, just like we stick with our faves from the Mortal Instruments. 3_

 _I'm putting the same A/N at the beginning of all updated chapters, so if you're reading this right now, feel free to skip it every time following. I love and appreciate every single one of you. And for whoever needs it, you are not your past. You are not the wrongs done to you. You are worthy and strong and so entirely perfect. Please know that._

 _Love you all._

* * *

 **Dancing With Demons**

 **Chapter 11: Hell Fire**

 **Song: Let Me Touch Your Fire – ARIZONA**

* * *

"You're not condemned to this bedroom, you know," a warm voice muses. Jace leans casually against the doorjamb, studying me with amused eyes as I leap from the unmade bed, scattering colored pencils across the floor with a soft, but chaotic sound, interrupting the music drifting from a speaker by the window. I wrap the thick, woolen cardigan tighter around my slender frame, hoping desperately to hide the fabric of his old Yankees jersey, the top two buttons undone to reveal the ring hanging low beneath my throat.

I don't seem to have succeeded, judging by the brazen appreciation in his golden eyes as his teeth sink into his lower lip, failing to hide the smirk lurking beneath the surface.

He seems exceptionally more comfortable than I, with one hand tucked into his gray suit pants, his blue tie hanging loosely around his neck, drawing attention to the buttons undone on his own shirt, revealing the curving lines of his inky tattoos. I imagine how sturdy his muscles were beneath my delicate fingertips, how surprisingly soft his skin was, how steady his heart beat against my palm.

I create a shroud of crimson hair to hide my blush. Despite my shield, his gaze tracks heat across my body. My veins burn with a strange fire, moving slowly down my limbs, stretching outward from my chest and engulfing me in flames. I'm so consumed with taming my internal wildfire that I don't hear his footsteps until his calloused fingers are delicately pushing the hair from my face, securing the rogue locks behind my ear.

I'm tasked with ensuring my breathing doesn't become embarrassingly labored.

Jace's gaze suddenly drops to my hands, curled tightly inside the fabric of my sweater, an old birthday gift from my brother, dropped unceremoniously with the rest of my belongings.

Most of which have found their way into the trash, as it's difficult to be sentimental about objects that hold no good memories.

Wordlessly, he wraps his fingers around mine.

I can't who's more surprised that I open my palm for him. His other hand settles at my hip, an appropriate distance up my torso to avoid any scandal, though I know that it's probably just a coincidence and that surely Jace Herondale does not care so much about a woman's personal space.

"What are—" my question is cut off abruptly as Jace begins to move, swaying us to the beat of a song much too fast for romantic dancing.

The woven rug is soft beneath my bare feet, but he leads us deeper into the room, the hardwood startlingly cold against my feet.

And yet, it does little to break this trance he's placed me in, to draw me from the swirling golden storms in his eyes and settle me back on Earth. Each step he takes is deliberate, his fingers digging into my skin lightly, directing me which direction to move, pulling me close only to spin me away, hauling me back to him with just as much grace.

Dizzied from the dance, intoxicated by his touch, I let him twirl me around the bedroom until the sun has disappeared below the horizon, the darkness of night spilling through my windows like ink, draping our dance in shadows. The song has changed countless times, but Jace takes the new rhythm in stride, never interrupting the silence between us.

Our gazes our fused, never wavering as I begin to understand his motions, my feet more sure of themselves as I twirl longer and faster, his hand touching my waist so that I maintain my momentum.

I stumble backward, sliding to the floor against the wall, the music overwhelmed by my breathless laughter. The broad smile splitting my face stings my cheeks and my sides ache with exertion and mirth. I finally chance a look up at him through my lashes, finding a genuine smile that lights up the darkness in both the room and his eyes. He sinks to the ground beside me, turning those boyish eyes on me.

There's something about that moment, beneath that gaze, that shifts my universe.

It's not a look of loathing or desire, neither of control or disgust.

It's a look of pure, unbridled joy, not tainted by selfishness or arrogance.

It's a look I'd only been privy to a handful of times, given to me by only two people.

Jonathan and my mother.

Its happiness saturated with laughter and brimming with something more, something deeper.

Love.

And it's a moment of revelation.

I love this boy, with all his barriers and walls. With the blood staining his hands and the scars marring his skin.

My thoughts are interrupted when his hand takes up mine once more, his thumb running soothingly along me knuckles.

As the warmth of my musings is replaced by the warmth of his skin, I finally drink him in with clearer eyes.

His mouth is still upturned, further on the left than the right, revealing a chipped incisor. There's a fresh, purple bruise blossoming along his chin, a bit of blood on the collar of his shirt.

His hands and eyes in complete contradiction with his disheveled appearance. And yet, I'm not afraid. He leans in slowly, gauging every subtle shift of my body as his fingertips lift my chin, our hot breath mingling beneath the curtain of night. His golden eyes flicker upward one more time, and I allow mine to slip shut, fingers snaking into his already mussed hair, pulling his face the last millimeter until our lips collide.

His mouth is soft and steady against mine, setting a leisurely pace as he angles his head, his fingers sliding from my chin and into my hair, his thumb resting gently before my ear. He pulls away after a moment, much too soon for my taste.

Though it's probably best that he did, as I'd been considering letting this man ravage me atop this rug, not even bothering with stumbling to the bed. He doesn't move his hand or his eyes from my face, reading my every expression.

I wonder what he can find swimming in my eyes.

Desire? Beauty?

Fear?

Lingering like a scar that will never quite smooth over, are all those men, and though Jace often causes my mind to forget, my body refuses, often positioning itself further from any interaction that has the potential to lead down that path. Always nagging at the back of my skull is the reminder of those dark eyes, flashing like coals in the lamplight, my nose buried in the stained and stinking quilts until he yanks my head back by my curls, arching my back to drive himself deeper into me, moaning with startling satisfaction.

But this time, my torso leans in, my feet tucked away beneath my body instead of against my chest. He puts his arm gently over my shoulders, and I lean against him.

I notice there's a knife in his belt and a ghost in his eyes.

"Stay with me tonight," I whisper, because suddenly I don't want to be alone. There's no hesitation in his responding nod. He helps me to me feet, my knees still a bit shaky from our earlier exchange. His arm remains draped across my shoulders as he leans over to quiet the music. He smooths the tangled blankets before turning them back for me, accepting the cardigan as I shrug it off my shoulders. He grabs the sleeve of his jersey, rubbing the fabric between his thumb and index finger with a soft, sleepy smile.

There's nothing sexual about it, just him seeming pleased that I'd taken a liking to his things. He rounds the bed, pulling his tie over his head and reaching down to remove his socks. His shirt joins the slowly growing pile, along with his belt. He hesitates at the button of his pants, quirking his eyebrow at me in a silent question. I bite my lip, nodding through the darkness as he drops the fabric to the ground, slipping between the covers in a black pair of boxer briefs.

Immediately, his warm body drives away the coldness that has been plaguing my nights. He lies on his back, his muscled and tattooed arms folded politely across his chest, taking up as little space as possible.

Abstaining from huffing like a child, I edge closer to him, placing one hand against his chest, my cheek pressed against his bicep. When he rolls to face me, his face pillowed in his hand, I tangle our feet together, pressing my cold toes beneath his calves, drawing a laugh from his otherwise silent throat. He pulls the blankets up over our shoulders and tucks a curl behind my ear.

I don't expect it when he leans in to kiss me, soft and sweet. "Goodnight," he whispers, only the second thing he's said to me all night. His free hand wraps around mine and cradles it against his chest, and I watch him with laden lashes until his heartbeat lulls me to sleep.


	12. Chapter 12

_Hello, hello, hello! For those of you new to the story, welcome! For those of you new to me, welcome! For those who've been to this story before, welcome back, and to those who have been with me since the beginning, I am eternally grateful for your support and patience and understanding._

 _I've been struggling with this story and how to tell it. As some of you know, I lost all my outlines, notes and chapters for this story when my laptop broke a few months ago. Rereading it, trying to remember all the places I wanted it to go, there were some things that I wasn't happy with, some things I wanted to add or change._

 _So I've decided to edit and re-upload my chapters. The general storyline has not changed, so feel free to skip these chapters right to the new one, but I've definitely added some additional content, some direction, and some fluff. :)_

 _During my hiatus, I've been writing, working on other projects, and wrestling with a part of my past that I've not yet been strong enough to deal with, but I'm hoping to be back and better than ever, and hold myself accountable for updating!_

 _Thanks for sticking with me through thick and through thin, just like we stick with our faves from the Mortal Instruments. 3_

 _I'm putting the same A/N at the beginning of all updated chapters, so if you're reading this right now, feel free to skip it every time following. I love and appreciate every single one of you. And for whoever needs it, you are not your past. You are not the wrongs done to you. You are worthy and strong and so entirely perfect. Please know that._

 _Love you all._

* * *

 **Dancing With Demons**

 **Chapter 12: Inner Demons**

 **Songs: Smother - Daughter,** **Something Worth Saving – Gavin DeGraw**

* * *

I'm awaken by the sharp trilling of Jace's cell phone on my nightstand, eyes opening to blackness as he reaches blindly to answer. There's a sudden rush of cold air as he hauls himself from my bed, stepping into the hallway while muttering in hushed, urgent tones. I pull the blankets back up to my chin, my eyes adjusting to the lack of light.

The darkness hasn't scared me since I was nine. Not yet a woman, I had already realized that the real monsters didn't lurk in the shadows, but rather stood in full sun, commanding the attention of those around them, wearing the face of a mailman, a police officer…a little girl. It was the day—with curly pigtails and a striped green dress—my father made me take my first life. I didn't know his name, but I'll never forget that face, crystal blue eyes with years of smiles wrinkling the corners, a day's worth of stubble dusting the strong line of his jaw, the blond hair dyed in blood. There wasn't any fear in him as he knelt before my shaking hands, barely large enough to hold the blade as my father aimed a gun between my shoulder blades—a contingency plan, a shot to kill us both.

He didn't beg, didn't cower—not for himself anyway. "Father of the year, Valentine," he'd spat gruffly, blood from his split lip landing on my Mary Jane shoes. "Making your daughter do your dirty work." I shifted to steal a glance at my father, but he only dug the pistol deeper into my back, commanding me to do it, to run the glistening blade across this stranger's throat. "Be a man, Valentine! Kill me yourself." Jonathon stood in the corner, just inside my peripherals, hands balled into fists, another gunman trained on him, daring him to save me from this guilt.

Valentine laughed cruelly, jarring the muscles in my back with the weapon. "You chastise me for _my_ parenting techniques? We both know how important it is that our children train." There's silence for a moment, the man's gaze steady to the left of my shoulder. "Besides, my daughter shall receive all the glory in killing you."

The man snorted. "There's no glory in killing me. You're only trying to keep the target off your back, to make sure your hands are clean of this." The gun cocked, and I stiffened. All my trembling seized as my eyes widen, my eyes pleading to anyone that would pay attention. "You're bluffing."

Fire erupted in my shoulder as my father put a bullet through it, holding me by the waist to keep me from pitching forward. I didn't even have it in me to cry as I stared at the river streaming from the gaping hole. Jonathon was fighting against two men holding him back, shouting curses at my father. "Still think this is a joke?" He reloaded the pistol, but it was no longer against my back. The metal left a bruise where he pushed it into my head, just in front of a pigtail. I wanted to shy away from it, but black tinged the edges of my vision, my body swaying with the spinning room. "Do it, Clary, or you'll die, too."

I choked on my sobs, and the man finally dropped his gaze from Valentine, finding a girl with knobby knees and freckles, drenched in her own blood, crying with a knife in her unsteady fingertips. "It's okay," he whispered quietly, so quietly I could barely hear it above the roaring in my brain. "It's okay." He tilted his chin, stretching as far as he could with his bound wrists. I shook my head fiercely, pounding the gun into it, praying my father would just kill me instead. But he was silent, waiting. "Right here…along my neck," he said gently. "It's okay." He nodded as I lifted the blade, pushing it into the tender skin of his neck, watching his eyes close. I'd squeezed mine too as I tore it across his neck, hearing him pitch forward, our blood mixing to create an ocean on the cement. I'll never forget his face, or the words that echo every time I become the monster stepping into the sun—"I'm sorry, Jonathon."

I haven't been scared of the dark in almost a decade, but now, as Jace lifts himself from the bed, mumbling things into his phone as he grabs his keys, I can't help but shrink in on myself, seeking his warmth, his presence. It isn't until hours later he returns, and I pretend not to notice the blood on his clothes as the bathroom light pools at his feet. It's in that light, that I can see the haunted look in his eyes, the guilt, the _humanity_. It's then that I can see the differences from Valentine, in the way he sighs heavily, his movements muted as he disappears into the shower. He's not working for attention. He's not looking for glory and grandeur. He's merely living this life, _surviving_ it.

And how can I blame him?

I know what has to be done to survive. I know what I've done to survive.

I pretend to be asleep when he returns, sliding in across from me. I don't flinch when he wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me against his chest and burying his face into my shoulder. I don't even move when he presses his lips against my scar, save for the soft smile spreading across my lips.

X.O.X.O.X

The trigger gives beneath my finger, the shot quieted by the silencer attached the barrel of my gun, my crew looking at me with startled and confused expressions as the suspect slumps forward in his chair, his body layered in the crimson of his own blood. "I don't have time for pitiful pleas today," I growl, giving each of my men a pointed look before handing off the pistol and stripping my bloodstained gloves, stuffing them into Alec's awaiting hands as we weave through the dark alleys toward where my Corvette is parked. Alec knows enough to keep his silence until the purring engine has calmed me enough to take a deep breath and release the tension in my shoulders.

"What happened back there?" I picture the man's graying hair and wrinkled eyes, looking up at me with a mouthful of missing teeth, each form of torture not eliciting the information needed, only causing him to beg for his life more. A man with no dignity is no man at all. I will not be known for my patience or my cool temper. I want to be feared. I want to be respected.

"He wasn't giving us anything. He was becoming a liability." My words are punctuated by a sharp yawn, something that does not go unnoticed by my brother as I pull onto the interstate, watching several of my men part ways to destroy the evidence.

Honestly, I haven't been sleeping. At all. My nights are spent just holding Clary, my eyes barely closed, hanging onto every steady breath, every sleepy sigh, every mumble of coherent words. She thrashes in her darkest dreams, apologizing with eyes still screwed shut and gritted teeth, but I reply with silence, pretending not to be privy to these moments of weakness, my body strictly relaxed and still as if trapped in the depths of slumber. I want her to choose to share these secrets, these fears with me. I want her, for once in her life, to be in control of her mind, her body, her soul.

I don't pull her back when she moves away, and I don't shift when she settles her head against my chest, her curls tickling and teasing the skin beneath my chin. I savor this feeling, this protectiveness I have over this woman, wondering how she'd so easily made me want to keep her safe. I tell myself it's because she's a Shadowhunter now, that I care about all my members equally. But I know that's a lie. Never before had I bothered with the wellbeing of the women who have lain with me. I worry about the new recruits on their first missions. I make myself sick sending Max and Izzy and Alec into the folds of evil, but not the women who give themselves to me so readily. I tell myself it's because she's my wife, and that these feelings are merely to keep up appearances. I tell myself it's because this is Jonathon's sister, and he'd entrusted me to keep her safe.

But it's all a farce, a lie fabricated to satisfy the lessons my father and grandfather had instilled in me, to present myself as a strong, unwavering leader.

There's no external reasoning behind the feelings this small, vibrant woman rips from somewhere long ago sealed off. It's something about her, those endless green eyes, that timid smile, the way her body moves when she fights, radiating confidence despite her past—it drives me insane, draws me into her, like a moth that had been living in a cave seeing light for the first time. It's more powerful than any emotion I've felt before, more confusing, more terrifying.

We haven't spoken since that night in her bedroom, not more than the passing pleasantries, no closer than strangers on the street. But every morning I realize I've learned something new about her, like how she takes three sugars in her coffee, or that she completely detests eggs, or how she never wears anything but the color black. I've memorized her freckles, her expressions, but she's still a complete mystery to me.

And it's frustrating.

Enough so that it's leaking into my work. Enough that Alec's taken a notice.

Thankfully, even he doesn't have the gall to cross me right now. We say our goodbyes when I drop him off, and minutes later, I'm climbing the stairs to my apartment, stuffing the key into the lock as I grunt greetings to the guards I've hired to ensure Valentine doesn't return for Clary. When I push through the door, I'm surprised to find that the TV is on, flashing streaks of color into the darkness.

Kicking my shoes off, I shuffle quietly to the couch, finding Clary sprawled out on top of it, a blanket strewn haphazardly over her, and her mouth hanging open. I can't help the laugh that escapes me when a snore too big for a human so small tears up her throat and startles her from slumber. "Oh, Jace," she whispers, rubbing her eyes and scratching her head, the wild crimson curls once contained in a bun now falling free to frame her face.

My stomach erupts with butterflies.

I've never seen someone so beautiful.

And I want to kiss her, to shove my hands into those beautiful, soft curls and kiss her until she's breathless and begging for more. I want to carry her to my bed, to rip every article of clothing from her body until nothing separates us. I want to hold her, to worship her.

My heart is beating embarrassingly fast as she sits up, scooting over to make more room for me on the sofa. "How was your day?" I wonder if she notices the slight drop in my face at the question. Each life I take, it takes a part of me. I don't enjoy killing, but it's part of my job, of who I am, and it's not like these people are innocent. Some can be just as bad as me, but why do I have the right to play judge, jury, and executioner.

"How was your day?" I ask in avoidance. Clary started her secretary position this morning, though I hadn't been in the office to check her progress, Isabelle said she'd caught on pretty well and was already more professional than my previous secretaries.

I think Isabelle's developing a soft spot for my wife.

"I think it went pretty well." I'm stricken with the sudden urge to put my arm around her and kiss her temple. It's so domesticated, so mundane, that my entire body stiffens to prevent it. This woman has yet to show any interest in me while awake. I can't show my cards before hers are even dealt. "Isabelle showed me how to run the scheduling program and how to organize the files." My eyes follow her lips as she speaks, recounting every task of the day. I'm surprised it doesn't bore me, listening to her speak. Instead, I want her to keep talking, to tell me every small and boring detail. I press further when she slows. I praise her work when she shows her insecurities.

And I fight my urge to kiss her.

Because if I take what's not been given, how am I any different than those before me. The sick bastards that Valentine gave her to as a reward. I can be a killer, a heartless murderer of men that deserve it, but I cannot steal innocence. That's the one moral I've managed to maintain. I'll never take from a woman, never force her into something she does not want. It's a small victory in comparison to the things I have done, but it's the most important to me.

When she finally runs out of words to say, she pulls her lower lip between her teeth, chewing it nervously as her eyes slip from mine to the floor. I miss the confidence when she's fighting, the fire in her eyes as she attacked me. I want her to see me as the boss and not cower in fear. I want her to level her gaze on me and challenge me. I want her to know her worth.

I don't stop myself quickly enough when I'm reaching out, gently massaging her lip from its harsh confines. I don't miss the way she freezes, eyes widening as I allow my hand to drop to my side. After a moment of silence, she smiles shyly, blinking slowly with exhaustion as Rick and Morty plays on the TV beside her.

But that smile she gives me has me wide awake.

It's nervous. It's curious. But most importantly, it's hopeful.


	13. Chapter 13

_Hello, hello, hello! For those of you new to the story, welcome! For those of you new to me, welcome! For those who've been to this story before, welcome back, and to those who have been with me since the beginning, I am eternally grateful for your support and patience and understanding._

 _I've been struggling with this story and how to tell it. As some of you know, I lost all my outlines, notes and chapters for this story when my laptop broke a few months ago. Rereading it, trying to remember all the places I wanted it to go, there were some things that I wasn't happy with, some things I wanted to add or change._

 _So I've decided to edit and re-upload my chapters. The general storyline has not changed, so feel free to skip these chapters right to the new one, but I've definitely added some additional content, some direction, and some fluff. :)_

 _During my hiatus, I've been writing, working on other projects, and wrestling with a part of my past that I've not yet been strong enough to deal with, but I'm hoping to be back and better than ever, and hold myself accountable for updating!_

 _Thanks for sticking with me through thick and through thin, just like we stick with our faves from the Mortal Instruments. 3_

 _I'm putting the same A/N at the beginning of all updated chapters, so if you're reading this right now, feel free to skip it every time following. I love and appreciate every single one of you. And for whoever needs it, you are not your past. You are not the wrongs done to you. You are worthy and strong and so entirely perfect. Please know that._

 _Love you all._

* * *

 **Dancing With Demons**

 **Chapter 13: Big Mouths Means Bad Business**

 **Song: quit - LANY**

* * *

It's Clary's first day at the office, and she's hesitating outside my door. Even the frosted glass can't mask those cherry curls that cascade down to her waist, can't conceal those determined emerald eyes. She holds a cup of coffee in her right hand, her other clutching a purple planner to her chest. I chew my lip to contain my smile, counting the seconds it takes her to build the confidence to knock.

Forty-seven.

Half the time it took Simon when he first began.

"Come in," I tell her, pretending to be utterly fascinated with something o n my computer screen so that she doesn't realize I've been watching her. "Good morning." My greeting startles her, like she hadn't expected an exchange of words or a _hello_ at all. She falters on the black heels she's wearing but catches herself so quickly I almost don't notice.

Almost.

Her hands are shaking around the paper cup as she sets it on my desk, steam escaping through the hole in the lid. I'd recently become used to the unintentional cold brews delivered by Mark, who tended to get sidetracked on his way back to the office. "Here's your coffee, Mr. Herondale." I can't help the way it arouses me when my name falls from her lips, so I attempt to inconspicuously shift into a more comfortable position.

"Thank you…Mrs. Herondale." I add the last part particularly deeply, quietly, like a dirty secret. It has the desired effect, pulling a red blush to her cheeks and a shy smile to her lips. She recovers faster than I expect, as most women enjoy hovering in the bubble of my attention and appreciation.

Clary, however, has begun to flip through her planner, ticking off the day's mundane schedule. It truly is just a day at the office, with meetings discussing my legitimate businesses rather than the illicit dealings I'd been consumed with as of late. "I've already loaded everything onto your digital calendar, so you should receive notifications on your computer." I scroll through my Macboook until I find the schedule.

"Thank you, Clarissa." She flinches at the sound of her full name. "Clary," I amend quickly, taking note of the sudden tenseness in her body. "That will be all." She nods in response, escorting herself from the room without another word.

I watch her hazed frame settle in at the desk on the other side of the wall, contented by just watching her exist, performing the simple tasks of answering the phone, replying to emails, sorting the mail.

I'm only released from her spell when my office door opens again, a dark, slender figure obscuring my view.

"Alec," I greet curtly, allowing annoyance to slip into my voice. He didn't knock. He never does. I allow him to assume that is what I'm upset about as he throws himself into the chair across from me, offering a shrug as an apology.

"Is that her?" he asks, jerking his head in the direction of my new secretary, who is currently twisting her beautiful, crazy curls into a tight bun. I raise an eyebrow, and Alec takes that as an invitation to continue. "She's…different than I'd expected."

"And what _did_ you expected," I bite out, knowing the answer before it escapes his mouth.

Blonde.

Busty.

Sex on legs.

Surely not the petite redhead in a modest pencil skirt with a violet blouse buttoned to a professional height.

"Nothing!" His voice has raised defensively as he puts his hands up, like I might put a bullet in him. "I just…your sudden marriage…it doesn't make sense to me." I log into my laptop.

"One day you will." The last person I'd expected to keep secrets from was Alec Lightwood, but he tends to be closed-minded about certain things, and marriage to a demon is most certainly one of those _things_. "So do you have a reason for being here or…?"

"Hey, did you get a load of Jace's new secretary? She actually smiled and said _hi_ ," Isabelle announces, flopping down in the chair beside Alec. "Definitely an upgrade from the last one—Alice."

"Aline," Alec and I correct at the same time with a distinctive eyeroll. Isabelle is not threatened by many things, but being raised in the Shadowhunters, surrounded by men, women frighten her.

Though she'd never admit it.

"That's the new Mrs. Herondale," Alec informs her with a teasing grin.

"You're joking!" Isabelle laughs. "That little thing?!" She clutches her stomach, and I lean back in my seat, trying to keep the hostility from my expression. "Oh shit, Jace, she must be hell in bed because Angel knows you're not keeping her around for anything else."

Anger flares in my chest, hot like a branding iron, but I wrestle it back down. "Our union was formed under certain circumstances, which, when the time arises, the two of you will be made aware of." Isabelle's jaw goes slack. I cut a glare at her. "She's not fucking pregnant, if that's what you're thinking."

She relaxes slightly. "I give her a month."

Alec scoffs. "A week, maximum."

"For what?" I've finally allowed an emotion into my voice. Exasperation.

"Before you kick her to the curb." Isabelle's blasé way of writing off my marriage startles me, forcing me to wonder what kind of man I am in her eyes, in everyone's eyes.

"Seriously," Alec continues, "the longest relationship you carried was with that Faerie—Kaelie. And that was _only_ sex. Your wife is bound to annoy you more than any hookup." My eyes trail their shoulders, out the door, to the woman sketching absently with a phone pressed to her ear.

"Enough about you relationship. Do either of you have a legitimate reason to be bothering me right now?"

"Is that Jace's wife?!" Max yells, bursting through the door, his hair sticking up in all directions as he slides his phone into his back pocket. "She's a fucking smoke show!"

"You told Max?!" I accuse at the same time Izzy groans about how absolutely nobody says _smoke show_ anymore. "We are going to have a serious discussion about gossiping and privacy and _knocking_ ," I emphasize the last one, "but for now, I have important business to attend to, so if you will, get the fuck out."


	14. Chapter 14

_Hello, hello, hello! For those of you new to the story, welcome! For those of you new to me, welcome! For those who've been to this story before, welcome back, and to those who have been with me since the beginning, I am eternally grateful for your support and patience and understanding._

 _I've been struggling with this story and how to tell it. As some of you know, I lost all my outlines, notes and chapters for this story when my laptop broke a few months ago. Rereading it, trying to remember all the places I wanted it to go, there were some things that I wasn't happy with, some things I wanted to add or change._

 _So I've decided to edit and re-upload my chapters. The general storyline has not changed, so feel free to skip these chapters right to the new one, but I've definitely added some additional content, some direction, and some fluff. :)_

 _During my hiatus, I've been writing, working on other projects, and wrestling with a part of my past that I've not yet been strong enough to deal with, but I'm hoping to be back and better than ever, and hold myself accountable for updating!_

 _Thanks for sticking with me through thick and through thin, just like we stick with our faves from the Mortal Instruments. 3_

 _I'm putting the same A/N at the beginning of all updated chapters, so if you're reading this right now, feel free to skip it every time following. I love and appreciate every single one of you. And for whoever needs it, you are not your past. You are not the wrongs done to you. You are worthy and strong and so entirely perfect. Please know that._

 _Love you all._

* * *

 **Dancing With Demons**

 **Chapter 14: Holy Matrimony**

 **Songs: Let Go – Dean Lewis,** **Morning Light – Alexander Wren, Rebecca Daniel**

* * *

I'm standing in line at the little indie coffee shop I'd found around the corner from the office, tucked discreetly between a convenience store and a shoe shop. It's calm inside, not crowded like the Pret a Manger and Starbucks across the street, with people chatting to one another rather than into phones, others working at laptops, listening to the soft rock playing through the speakers rather than drowning out the world with expensive headphones.

The sun is setting outside, showering the turning leaves in hues of gold, people oblivious to the beauty their basking in as they hurry home to their families, to their friends. There's a great sadness in the way these people ignore what's around them, turn up their noses at the slightest inconvenience rather than revel in all the grandeur of the city. I'd never been allowed to roam the city, let alone dip into a coffee shop to order myself something.

The chairs and tables are worn with love, none of them matching, intermixed with reupholstered couches and chairs. A fire burns in the corner, driving out the fall chill and drawing attention to the bookshelf, boasting a sign that says "Take one, Leave one."

"Hi, Clary! Medium caramel macchiato with extra whip?" the barista cheerfully asks, recognizing me from my daily trips. I remember the first time I'd slipped through that door, a tinkling bell signaling my arrival. It was on my first day of work, hoping to make a good impression by delivering Jace a coffee. I'd spent so long marveling at the menu that I'd nearly been late, negating the entire purpose of my visit.

"Can I get a medium black coffee with that?" a familiar voice inquires smoothly, producing some bills from a leather wallet and telling the barista to keep the change. She smiles appreciatively, turning to make the drinks. "Hi," he whispers after I'd stared at him for a whole two minutes.

My heart flutters in my chest, though I can't tell if it's out of nervousness or excitement. "Hi," I respond lamely, reaching out to grab my drink as she calls my name. Jace pulls out a seat for me near the back corner of the shop, a quiet place away from prying eyes and nosey ears.

"This place is nice," he tells me easily, leaning back against the chair, stretching out his long legs to the side of the table. "Cozy."

"Did you follow me?" I blurt, my eyes widening at the unintended hostility in my tone. I realize that it is fear that drives my erratic heartbeat. Fear of the impending anger, of the backlash of my insubordination. It was foolish of me to wander the city by myself without permission, stupid to think that I had any freewill.

"I called your name, but you didn't hear me. Izzy gave me a date for—"

"You're not mad?" His brows knit together, and he physically recoils, like I'd slapped him.

"Mad? About…" He draws it out, expecting me to finish his sentence.

"Me going off on my own?" He barks out a laugh.

"You're not my prisoner, Clary." I speak before I think. I can't help myself.

"I could be feeding information to Valentine."

"You're not." Jace laughs again, like the possibility of me committing treason is hilarious. "Besides, you're meant to be my wife. I'm supposed to trust you." He sets down his paper cup, reaching out to take up my hands. They warm mine, which have suddenly run cold. "You're my wife, you're a Shadowhunter, but first and foremost, you're a person. You're allowed to live your life however you wish, so long as you remain loyal to the gang."

"And you," I add at his hesitation, fingering the ring encircling my finger.

"We can discuss that later."

"I'd rather do it now." Jace releases my hands, leaning back, stretching uncomfortably.

"I mean, I'd like for you to be loyal to me, but you and I both know that this marriage is hardly legal, that it's not fair of me to ask that of you."

I can't help but _want_ him to ask that of me because I want that from him. Part of me knows that it will be Jace and only Jace, but the other part of me fears that I will have to share him with other women, just the way my father shared me to his men. "I will remain faithful. It is my duty as your wife to ensure you are viewed as the ultimate power. An adulterous wife would certainly cause defamation and call into question your fitness to lead." I flinch at my words. They sound stiff, rehearsed. I drop my voice. "It's no secret that I'm not a virgin, and I can't change that—" Jace dismisses my insecurities with a wave of his hand.

"Virginity is an archaic concept developed by men as means to control women. The last thing I want is for you to feel controlled, Clary, okay?" I nod. "In the past, I've had a certain reputation that I'm no longer proud of, but it changed the day I married you. There's no one else, and as long as you'll have me, there never will be." I let go of a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. Seemingly done with the conversation, Jace looks around, finishing his coffee. "I like this place. What's it called?"

"Java Jones." He repeats the name to himself, rising as he collects my empty cup and dumps it in the trash. Taking up my hand, he pulls me into the city, holding me close to his side. He doesn't scurry like those around him, doesn't rush though life with his head down.

I watch, curiously, as he turns his face toward the sun, lets its warmth fill him. "What are you looking at?" his voice is amused, knowing that I didn't notice him watching me right back. I don't respond. I can't. Instead, I pull up short, turning so that my hands grip his cheeks, pulling his face down fiercely against mine.

We can't hear the curses around us as we clog the sidewalk. We can't hear the honking cars or the sirens in the distance. It's not Jace Herondale, leader of the Shadowhunters and his wife. It's not Clary, the daughter of the Demons. It's just two kids, forgoing the fear of the unknown, persisting forward despite life trying to drag them back. It's just two kids, living through these new emotions, trying to figure out what they all mean. It's just Jace's lips against mine, warm and inviting, moving slowly like we have all the time in the universe. His thumb lifts, running along my cheek before sliding behind my neck, tilting my head to deepen the kiss. It's just two kids, unaware of what fate has in store.

X.O.X.O.X

Clary has since moved into my bedroom, finding it much more convenient and comfortable, since I've spent every night in her room since the first. "Hey," she whispers sleepily up toward me as I come in from a night of reconnaissance. Someone has been feeding intel to our enemies, sabotaging every delivery. Tonight had been no difference, a routine drop becoming a bloodbath as the Mundanes encroached on our territory.

"Hey." I can't deny that I've grown excited at the idea of returning home to this woman, slumbering softly in my bed.

"What time is it?" her voice is deep, thick with sleep as I ditch my clothes at the door, hoping she can't see the blood crusting on them or the gash tearing up my left side.

"Just after two," I respond slowly, turning back the covers. Clary squeals childishly as she's hit with cold air, pulling a rumbling laugh from my chest as I slip in behind her. She settles against my chest as I drag her body against mine, tucking my nose into her curls, dousing myself in her scent.

Her eyes glow in the darkness, her fingers running along the stubble of my jaw. I wince involuntarily, the bruise already forming from the sucker punch landed to my face. She frowns, a crease forming between her brows at my discomfort. "You're hurt." I catch her wrist, pressing a warm kiss against her palm.

"I've been worse." I watch her analyze my words, deciding that I'm not glossing over any excruciating pain. I wonder, though, if she can see the ghost in my eyes, the fear. After the Mundanes' attack, I'd received a peculiar phone call, asking to meet in the subway, in the station on 72nd Street, the platform for the 1 Train heading toward Times Square.

"You're shaking," Clary whispers, pressing a comforting kiss to my blossoming bruise, the covers falling to reveal one of my college t-shirts, fittingly one from my time abroad. There's a strange gentleness in the way she treats me, not like I'm a fearsome and loathsome leader, but just a boy in dire need of affection.

 _Valentine's planning something_ , Jonathan grumbled before I'd even recognized him beneath the black baseball cap. _He's been taking calls from the Faeries and the Vampires. He's been reconciling old feuds and seeking alliances_. Jonathan gripped his shoulder. _He's preparing for war._

 _Against us?_ I'd asked lamely, deserving the harsh shake Jonathan gave me.

 _He'll go for your loved ones first, Jace. Your siblings…Clary_ , he choked on his sister's name, like it pained him to be so helpless, _no one close to you is safe_. I'd nodded, knowing that this was the lifestyle, that there should be no attachments, that no one should be seen as a weakness. _Don't trust anyone, Herondale. Not even your own men. Valentine has connections. He's very…persuasive._ I'd just stood there as Jonathan gave me warning after warning, desperately trying to get it all out before someone overheard him, before either one of us was recognized. When he'd seemed finished, I'd given my thanks, turning to go before his slender fingers encircled my wrist. _Give this to Clary for me? It's her birthday._ I accepted the outstretched box and Jonathan was gone, melting into the subway crowd, leaving me with a storm in my head.

When my thoughts finally gave way, Clary was still landing kisses against my jaw, lazily now, like she might fall asleep at any moment. "Sleep now, love," I whisper into her curls, stroking them absently with my free hand. Her head settles in the crook of my arm, and even when it falls numb, I don't have the heart to move it, uncertain of how long I'll have to hold her this way.


	15. Chapter 15

_Hello, hello, hello! For those of you new to the story, welcome! For those of you new to me, welcome! For those who've been to this story before, welcome back, and to those who have been with me since the beginning, I am eternally grateful for your support and patience and understanding._

 _I've been struggling with this story and how to tell it. As some of you know, I lost all my outlines, notes and chapters for this story when my laptop broke a few months ago. Rereading it, trying to remember all the places I wanted it to go, there were some things that I wasn't happy with, some things I wanted to add or change._

 _So I've decided to edit and re-upload my chapters. The general storyline has not changed, so feel free to skip these chapters right to the new one, but I've definitely added some additional content, some direction, and some fluff. :)_

 _During my hiatus, I've been writing, working on other projects, and wrestling with a part of my past that I've not yet been strong enough to deal with, but I'm hoping to be back and better than ever, and hold myself accountable for updating!_

 _Thanks for sticking with me through thick and through thin, just like we stick with our faves from the Mortal Instruments. 3_

 _I'm putting the same A/N at the beginning of all updated chapters, so if you're reading this right now, feel free to skip it every time following. I love and appreciate every single one of you. And for whoever needs it, you are not your past. You are not the wrongs done to you. You are worthy and strong and so entirely perfect. Please know that._

 _Love you all._

* * *

 **Dancing With Demons**

 **Chapter 15: Happy Birthday, Demon**

 **Beloved – Mumford & Sons**

* * *

"Good morning," he greets me, standing over me with a cup from Java Jones, steam curling into the air.

"Morning," I respond, arching my back to stretch out my cramped muscles. The bed beside me is cold, leaving me to wonder what time Jace had crawled from my embrace. "Thank you," I accept the drink with a groggy smile, a small, pleased noise escaping my throat as the macchiato hits my stomach. There's a rustling noise, and Jace presents a plate of chocolate chip pancakes, piled high with whipped cream and syrup. "No eggs this morning?" I'd never seen Jace eat anything other than eggs for breakfast, claiming that they were a protein packed start to a day, especially when training was to follow.

He smiles coyly, handing the plate to me, his fingertips lingering a bit too long as he settles himself back onto his side of the bad. "Happy Birthday, Clary."

"How did you know?" I marvel at him, like he's grown a second head, like no one has ever bothered to acknowledge my birthday before. Nobody has, not since Valentine began punishing any kindness toward me.

Instead of answering with words, he presents me with the small box. It's old, familiar I realize, as tears spring into my eyes. Jace falters for a moment. "Hey, no crying on your birthday. Happy thoughts," he murmurs, but I shake my head, a smile breaking out across my face as I open the jewelry case, finding the heart-shaped locked nestled in black silk.

"This was my mother's," I tell him, pulling it from the box and clutching it against my chest. "I'd thought it had been lost." I shake my head. "How did you get this?"

"Let's just say I'm rather fond of _both_ the Morgenstern children."

"You know Jon?" I can't help the hope in my voice that this is from him, that he's spoken to my brother.

"I'd even call us friends," he replies, extending an opened palm for the necklace. I hand it to him, turning my back toward him as I lift my hair up. I'm comforted by the weight of the locket, resting just above my wedding ring, two pieces of my heart. "This is from him."

I don't ask to see him. Because I know it's impossible. Even Jace meeting with him is suicide, and I can't ask anything further. So instead, I smile, warmed by the idea that my brother hasn't forgotten me, that he still cares from afar. Toying with the locket, I finish my breakfast and my coffee, tangled in the blankets and leaning against Jace's side as he, too, forgoes his standard meal and eats the birthday pancakes.

"I got you something, too, though I didn't exactly buy it for your birthday." I shake my head, starting to say that he's already done too much, that I've never been this spoiled on my birthday, but as always, when I start to become insecure, begin to feel unworthy, he waves those emotions off, this time with a sticky, sweet kiss to my lips. "It's for me, too. For my peace of mind." He presents me with a white box, and I lift the lid to find the latest iPhone staring up at me.

"I've never had a cellphone before." I can't help the excitement seeping into my voice. And within minutes, Jace has given me the rundown, showing me the numbers already loaded on, how to call out, how to text, even how to join Instagram. "Smile!" I shove the phone up in front of our faces, puffing out my cheeks and crossing my eyes as Jace sticks his tongue out toward the camera. "I want this one to be my background."

"Are you sure you want all prying eyes to see my shirtless body?" he jibes, pressing a few buttons until our picture shows up when I turn my phone on.

"Oh, please, you're always shirtless." He lifts his eyebrows like he's thinking about it before nodding in agreement.

"So, what do you want to do for your birthday?" he asks.

"This is really enough, Jace. Thank you—" He shook his head, sliding his arms beneath my body and lifting me from the bed.

And thus began the day of Clary, starting with another cup of coffee over cartoons, followed by a walk through central park, taking pictures like tourists with my new phone. Lunch at a diner called Taki, where Jace ordered us another round of pancakes.

"I've never been to the Met," I confess, blushing at the lameness of wanting to go to an art museum for my birthday.

But Jace just takes up my hand, tugging me toward his sleek Corvette with the biggest, dopiest grin on his face. "What are you smiling about, you goon?" He shrugs, though the smile doesn't leave his face.

"I just…" he pauses as he opens the door for me, giving him time to think of the right words as he jogs around to the driver's side. "I like sharing firsts with you." The purring engine stops any reply as I grip his hand a little tighter, leaning back into my seat with an equally dopey smile on my face.


	16. Chapter 16

_Hello, hello, hello! For those of you new to the story, welcome! For those of you new to me, welcome! For those who've been to this story before, welcome back, and to those who have been with me since the beginning, I am eternally grateful for your support and patience and understanding._

 _I've been struggling with this story and how to tell it. As some of you know, I lost all my outlines, notes and chapters for this story when my laptop broke a few months ago. Rereading it, trying to remember all the places I wanted it to go, there were some things that I wasn't happy with, some things I wanted to add or change._

 _So I've decided to edit and re-upload my chapters. The general storyline has not changed, so feel free to skip these chapters right to the new one, but I've definitely added some additional content, some direction, and some fluff. :)_

 _During my hiatus, I've been writing, working on other projects, and wrestling with a part of my past that I've not yet been strong enough to deal with, but I'm hoping to be back and better than ever, and hold myself accountable for updating!_

 _Thanks for sticking with me through thick and through thin, just like we stick with our faves from the Mortal Instruments. 3_

 _I'm putting the same A/N at the beginning of all updated chapters, so if you're reading this right now, feel free to skip it every time following. I love and appreciate every single one of you. And for whoever needs it, you are not your past. You are not the wrongs done to you. You are worthy and strong and so entirely perfect. Please know that._

 _Love you all._

* * *

 **Dancing With Demons**

 **Chapter 16: Trick Coins**

 **Song: Sound of Madness - Shinedown**

* * *

Jace is already in his office when I reach my desk the following Monday, his eyes flashing sharply to mine as I push through the door, extending him a cup of steaming black coffee without meeting his eyes. "You're late," he bites out, so unlike the soft way he spoke to me in my dreams. I mean, those had to have been dreams because the stern expression does not match the tormented one of last night. It's been so night-and-day with Jace, literally, that my head is spinning trying to keep up.

"I'm sorry, I—" He waves me off, his gaze shifting back to his computer.

"I don't have time for your excuses. I have a meeting in five minutes. I expect you to be there." I clutch my coffee a bit tighter, wondering if he notices the way my eyes widen, the way I begin to shake a little with anxiety. My father never trusted me enough to let me in on a meeting, never thought I was worth it. I scurry to my desk and collect a pad of paper and a pen, returning to the room just as Jace is pushing aside his coffee and pouring himself a glass of scotch. He doesn't acknowledge the concerned look I give him. He doesn't acknowledge me at all as people begin filing into the room.

A boy with mousy brown hair and eyes to match settles into a chair at the edge of the office, propping a laptop on his thighs and furiously typing away, not even bothering to mutter a greeting. Two raven-haired Shadowhunters follow, talking in low, urgent tones before landing their eyes on me. My heart stops in my chest, the girl's eyes, as black as night, as black as my father's. She quickly directs her attention elsewhere, giving me space to breathe. The boy beside her nods with tight lips, his blue eyes showing anything but approval at my presence.

He's taller than even Jace, lithe with lean, corded muscle running down the lengths of his arms, with an unsettling, all-knowing gaze and a venomous expression—a panther personified.

The woman is startlingly beautiful, despite the unnerving familiarity of her eyes. There's a wicked curve to her red lips, accentuating her high cheekbones. Her slender, muscled frame is wrapped in black leather, weapons stashed in every conceivable location. Her long, black hair cascades like a glossy, midnight waterfall when she tosses it over her shoulder.

My breath catches as I recognize her.

The Siren. The Bringer of Death.

Her kill-rate is legendary among not only the New York gangs, but in the global organized crime circuit. Stories of the fabled female mercenary have circulated for years. Few people have lived to tell the tale of the Siren, a woman as beautiful as she is cruel, leading many to believe she's little more than a myth.

Vague descriptions have surfaced. Hair and eyes as dark as hell, skin as smooths as glass, a smile as poisonous as the snake who'd given the fruit to Eve.

The telling factor, though, was the silver bracelet on her wrist, winding up her arm in a streak of blue. The Siren's whip. Her weapon of choice. A avert my eyes, praying to just melt into the wall instead of landing under that heavy gaze again.

A few more people shuffle in behind until all the seats are filled, leaving me as the only one standing.

"I need to know where we're at with the Vampire case." Jace twirls the alcohol in his glass, sounding bored as he addresses his men and women.

"Camille Belcourt was spotted on our territory four days ago," the raven-haired woman speaks in a business tone. "We have reason to believe she's going to intercept our next delivery." She glances at the boy next to her, who continues to speak.

"Our sources have told us that she's been in close contact with the Seelie Queen. An alliance like that could give them enough power to succeed tenfold." He, too, speaks with deliberate, clipped words, addressing a man who refuses to look at him.

The boy behind the laptop has stopped typing to peer upward behind oval lenses. "A hit like that could set us back months, possibly even years." Jace nods, chewing his lower lip in deliberation.

"We must make the first move, then. We must show them who they'd be messing with," Jace's tone is cold, calculating, every inch of the formidable, heartless man the world knows him to be.

I've seen the news stories, broadcasted on the fuzzy television set my father had allowed me to keep in my bedroom, if only to see the dangers that awaited me should I attempt to flee. The brutalities caused by the faceless mob boss, nearly equaling those caused by my father. Disemboweled, disassembled bodies turned up at every corner, at every doorstep, each with a link to betraying the Shadowhunters.

"They've been gathering at Hotel Dumort since the…unfortunate…burning of their den last summer," the blue-eyed boy supplies, the odd inflection in his voice indicating that the Shadowhunters had been behind the raging fire that destroyed most of the Vampires' business fronts and slashed their numbers in half. "They're likely not expecting us to know anything of their plans, so an orchestrated attack on their base should wipe them out."

"I can't wait to cut that grin off Camille's face," the woman grins, twirling a knife on her fingertips, a feral grin stretching across her face. "And Raphael," she spits the name in a way that's filled with equal parts passion and hatred. The boy behind the laptop chokes on the water he's drinking, and the woman flashes him a devilish smirk, one that rivals even Jace's.

My mind races ahead of the silent flirting between the pair, way into the future, to the bloodshed, the chaos, caused only by a rumor and a single sighting. I'd never had a say in the dealings of the Demons, never had a voice to stop unwarranted carnage, to save the lives of innocents caught in the crossfire. My mouth finishes the sprint before my brain.

"You can't attack Hotel Dumort. They've done _nothing_ to you!" I blurt, breaking my silence as all eyes snap to mine. Jace's eyes are full of venom as he slams his fist onto the desk, sending droplets of scotch from his tumbler across his files.

"Know your place," he hisses, his voice turning my blood to ice. Even his men's eyes widen at his sudden hostility. "You may be my wife, but you are not my equal." His eyes are hard as he addresses me, each hair on the back of my neck stiff with fear. My father used to speak to me this way right before landing a belt to my back or a knife to my hip. He progresses forward, and I meet it with backward steps, boxed in when my back presses against the wall, a picture frame digging into my spine. "You are a shaky peace agreement, and I've yet to decide if you will be traitorous." My throat has run dry, silencing any reply I might be able to formulate, my heart hammering loudly against my ribs. He jerks his head in the direction of the door, his eyes no longer on me but on the blue-eyed boy. His ice-blue stare trails me curiously before following his boss in silent submission, not wanting to elevate the tension in the room. "Watch her, Isabelle. If she tries to pull anything, bury a bullet between her eyes."

The door slams behind the men, and Isabelle rolls her dark eyes. "True love," she mutters, mopping up the spilled liquor with a Kleenex. "You've got guts, kid. I'll give you that." The way she calls me kid isn't meant to be demeaning, but despite myself, I glower in her direction. I can see the outline of a pistol against her thigh when she walks, rifling through the papers on Jace's desk, sorting them into files as she speaks. "You've already surpassed Alec's expiration date."

I hide my shock by wrinkling my nose. Her statement I so blunt it catches me off guard. "Excuse me?" Isabelle tucks a strand of sleek, black hair behind her ear, not looking up from where she's organizing the mess. "You've been making bets on my life?" The blue-eyed boy gives an inconsequential shrug and moves to follow Jace.

"Look, kid—"again with the _kid_ —"Jace has had many women. None of them have lasted." I lift my brows in disgust, though this woman isn't even looking.

"I am his wife now," I challenge, though my voice is weak. I feel so meager compared to these gangsters. I've been trained to fight, trained to survive, but they all carry weapons while I am unarmed. They're all unearthly beautiful, strong-willed and quick-witted.

"It changes nothing." She stands back, satisfied with her work. "Run along now. I've given you another week, and I don't want Jace to return and kick you to the curb."


	17. Chapter 17

_Hello, hello, hello! For those of you new to the story, welcome! For those of you new to me, welcome! For those who've been to this story before, welcome back, and to those who have been with me since the beginning, I am eternally grateful for your support and patience and understanding._

 _I've been struggling with this story and how to tell it. As some of you know, I lost all my outlines, notes and chapters for this story when my laptop broke a few months ago. Rereading it, trying to remember all the places I wanted it to go, there were some things that I wasn't happy with, some things I wanted to add or change._

 _So I've decided to edit and re-upload my chapters. The general storyline has not changed, so feel free to skip these chapters right to the new one, but I've definitely added some additional content, some direction, and some fluff. :)_

 _During my hiatus, I've been writing, working on other projects, and wrestling with a part of my past that I've not yet been strong enough to deal with, but I'm hoping to be back and better than ever, and hold myself accountable for updating!_

 _Thanks for sticking with me through thick and through thin, just like we stick with our faves from the Mortal Instruments. 3_

 _I'm putting the same A/N at the beginning of all updated chapters, so if you're reading this right now, feel free to skip it every time following. I love and appreciate every single one of you. And for whoever needs it, you are not your past. You are not the wrongs done to you. You are worthy and strong and so entirely perfect. Please know that._

 _Love you all._

* * *

 **Dancing With Demons**

 **Chapter 17: Apologies from the Overlord**

 **Song: Slow It Down - Lumineers**

* * *

My blood is boiling as I leave the office that afternoon, the day wasted wondering why Jace had even bothered to whisper those words to me. He's the biggest bully here, the biggest threat. There's no way in hell he can protect me from himself. The penthouse is empty when I shove through the door, but I slam the door to the bedroom anyway, throwing on a nightgown and pacing the length of the hardwood floors and glaring daggers at the bed Jace had made me agree to share.

Did he get off on this nice-guy-bad-boy act? Did it please him to leave me so confused with his mixed signals? And why am I letting myself get played by this man? Why, after all I've been through, am I so eager to throw myself at another that will just hurt me? There's nothing different about Jace Herondale. He's just like the rest. I pace until the sun sets, cursing myself out for being so naïve, so stupid, so weak.

When Jace finally returns, I'm lurking at the door, hands folded across my chest in annoyance, though the way he eyes my cleavage is a bonus. _Damn you, Clary_. He pushes through the threshold without a greeting, not that I'd expected much of one anyway, but the silence is always worse. "What the hell, Jace?" I finally burst into the silence as he sets a paper bag on the bed, wrinkling the perfectly smoothed quilt. I feel sick to my stomach, like I could literally empty my stomach on Jace's red Chucks. The thought is actually appealing as he blinks at me, tipping the bag over with a deliberate swipe, the contents spilling onto the comforter.

I can't control the way my mouth parts when I see the sketchpads and pencils and paints covering the bed. I also can't control my hands as they reach out to push away his approaching form. "What the _fuck_ , Jace." It's not really a question, more of a snarl as I hold my stance, a careful distance away from both him and the art supplies.

"What do you want me to say, Clary? That I'm sorry?" His voice is raw, almost like he's been beating himself up about it, almost like he's ashamed. _Almost_. "Being close to me, it's a death sentence. It paints a giant target on your back, and as much as I want to trust every single one of my men, I can't. I can't let them see how much you affect me. If they see how much you already mean to me, you'll become a pawn. I have to make you seem expendable. I have to make it seem like they can't get to me through you." My eyes have widened, and when I try to speak, no words will come out. "So, _yes_ , I'm sorry. I'm sorry that because of me, you're in danger."

He doesn't meet my gaze with his last words, and it's the first time I've seen him so uncertain, so insecure. "Did you have to yell at me like that, though?"

One side of his mouth lifts in a ghost of a smile. "Got the point across, didn't it?" He shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans. "You're my weakness, Clary." For once in my life, I could care less about the things on the bed. It feels like it's been years since I've seen the sun, since I've felt the golden rays kiss my cold, pale skin, spreading heat and color through my veins until all I can do is turn my head upward and let it devour me. I've become more accustomed to the cool heartlessness of the moon, to the silver light that does nothing but amplify the loneliness in my chest, staring down like one, unblinking eye, judging me, my existence. I can't remember the last time I'd felt worthy of the sun's embrace, enough so to pully open the curtains and bathe in its light.

And now, the sun is but an echo to the irises burning before me, _into_ me. They are gentle in their appraisal, tentative in the way they slide across my body, and suddenly, the sun does not seem worthy of me. At least, that's what it feels like now, as Jace closes the gap between us, splaying his fingers across the exposed skin of my back, his ring cutting a cool line. It seems like the only tangible thing about him, dressed in jeans and a faded t-shirt, his hair in perfect disarray, a small smile splitting his lips, a bit higher on the left than the right. I am completely and fully drenched in his shimmering light, basking in the afterglow of his eyes, clinging to the warmth in his hands as he slowly draws me to him. It's a gentle, tentative pull, enough so that I could pull away if I wanted.

I don't.

It's only when he is wholly pressed against me, his arms wrapped tightly around me that I become rooted in the earth once more, the small, meek woman playing house in a place much too exquisite. "I'm not used to people buying me things," I mumble to the ground, again unworthy of such beauty, such compassion. Jace's breath stirs my hair as he rests his cheek against my head.

"I promise to shower you in gifts," he whispers, so quietly I'm not certain I'm supposed to hear.

"You can't just buy me stuff every time you lose your temper."

There's a chuckle, as warm and inviting as a campfire on a cold night, and I can't resist meeting his eyes, so carefree, as he pulls me to the bed, eager to share the spoils. His smile has separated his lips, revealing a chipped tooth in an otherwise perfect set of teeth.

And my restraint crumbles. My hands slide up his neck and into his hair, his eyebrow raising as I pull his mouth against mine, catching both our surprised gasps in the space between us. There's no fireworks flashing behind my closed eyes, no electricity where our skin touches. Instead, there's an ardent heat swallowing us, threatening to consume us whole if we continue on the path. All I can do is cling to Jace tighter as his grip shifts to my hips, his mouth warm against mine, his tongue sliding leisurely across my lower lip to soothe where his teeth had nipped. My mouth opens, and Jace takes the opportunity to stroke his tongue gently along me. It's a soft kiss, but filled with passion as he pulls me flush against him.

He pulls away first, gasping for air like he'd been tumbling in the ocean, his skin flushed, his t-shirt rumpled, but his eyes, those guarded, soulful eyes—they're on fire.


	18. Chapter 18

_Hello, hello, hello! For those of you new to the story, welcome! For those of you new to me, welcome! For those who've been to this story before, welcome back, and to those who have been with me since the beginning, I am eternally grateful for your support and patience and understanding._

 _I've been struggling with this story and how to tell it. As some of you know, I lost all my outlines, notes and chapters for this story when my laptop broke a few months ago. Rereading it, trying to remember all the places I wanted it to go, there were some things that I wasn't happy with, some things I wanted to add or change._

 _So I've decided to edit and re-upload my chapters. The general storyline has not changed, so feel free to skip these chapters right to the new one, but I've definitely added some additional content, some direction, and some fluff. :)_

 _During my hiatus, I've been writing, working on other projects, and wrestling with a part of my past that I've not yet been strong enough to deal with, but I'm hoping to be back and better than ever, and hold myself accountable for updating!_

 _Thanks for sticking with me through thick and through thin, just like we stick with our faves from the Mortal Instruments. 3_

 _I'm putting the same A/N at the beginning of all updated chapters, so if you're reading this right now, feel free to skip it every time following. I love and appreciate every single one of you. And for whoever needs it, you are not your past. You are not the wrongs done to you. You are worthy and strong and so entirely perfect. Please know that._

 _Love you all._

* * *

 **Dancing With Demons**

 **Chapter 18: Sleepy Demons**

 **Songs: Lay By Me - Ruben, Bad Motherfucker - Machine Gun Kelly, Kid Rock**

* * *

She's already asleep when my feet carry me to the bedroom that night, her cheek pillowed in the palm of her hand, her belongings scattered haphazardly around the room. I can't bring myself to care about the mess as I lean against the doorframe, taking in the way the silver light mingles with her creamy skin, the blankets pooled at her waist to reveal a masterpiece of freckles painted up her arms, dusting across her cheeks and over her nose. Her thick, auburn lashes cast dark shadows on her face, like a tattoo of the turmoil of emotions she must be feeling inside.

Her life has thus far been spent with strange, ungrateful men, forced into their beds, unwilling but unable to fight their kisses, their touches. She's so small in the center of my white sheets, and I can't help but wonder how anyone can have a soul dark enough to hurt such innocence, to do anything other than worship such beauty. Her back is pressed into the mattress, hiding her secrets even in the depths of slumber. She's so ashamed of them, the way they spell out her abuse, quite literally. And I want to tell her that it's not something to be ashamed of, that I don't see weakness in her scars, only a strength that even I do not possess.

I silently shuck my pants off to the side of the room, undoing the buttons of my shirt swiftly before climbing between the sheets, gently as to not jostle her, certain to keep my distance.

I'm a criminal, a murderer. I am most certainly not worthy of a woman like her—one so strong, so independent despite all the odds. I can't imagine what past life would have given me enough good karma to find a penny face-up in the streets, let alone marry a woman so far out of my league. Somehow our stars had aligned, and Jonathon had entrusted me to protect her, to care for her in ways her family had failed.

Never before had I been so terrified of failing in my life. Not when my father sent me on my first mission. Not when I lost my virginity. Not when I tortured and killed my first man. I've always been as steady as stone, but this woman is an earthquake. She's ripping me apart from the inside, digging into parts of me I'd long ago forgotten.

I freeze as she shifts closer, curling her hand into a fist against my chest and sighing deeply. Tentatively, a brush a curl from her forehead, a small, sleepy smile pulling at her lips before they part again, her breathing soft and even. Something pangs through my chest, anciently familiar. Maybe I'm still human. Maybe there's something left worth saving.

And maybe, we can save each other.

X.O.X.O.X

The rough, cracked leather of the punching bag is comforting beneath my fingertips, as familiar as my hands themselves as I hold it steady, preventing it from swinging backward with each punch. Each crack on the bag matches a fault line on my chest, my back, my arms, as scarred and marred as my skin itself. Every frustration, every anger, every feeling of helplessness had been poured into this bag, into this room. For so long, it had been a private affair, a moment when I can let my guards fall, release every pent-up emotion inside of me until my knuckles are bruised and my muscles scream in protest.

Now, the punching bag bares new creases, new splits and cracks for a new set of scars. Sweat gathers in droplets at her hairline, sliding down the creases of her nose as she bounces on her toes, hands wrapped in purple tape, a smile in those normally troubled eyes. There's something surreal about her in this moment, where I'm privy to witness this rawness, this stripped version of her, shedding her usual shame and sadness for strength. She is fierce. She is powerful. She is beautiful.

Curls slip from her ponytail and into her face, the morning sun kissing her pale skin, gloriously on full display beneath the green Nike sports bra, auburn freckles dusting up her arms and over her stomach. These mornings have become ours, waking before the sun just to have these moments, unhindered by the trials of my daily life.

"From the core, not your shoulder," I coach her, leaning into the bag a bit more as her punches become stronger, faster. "Set your feet, Clary. No hesitation." Though I hadn't seen any hesitancy in her attacks, each punch firm and deliberate, an unnatural feat for someone just learning to fight. "Better." A smug smile tugs at her lips at my praise, and suddenly I'm putting my entire weight into holding the bag as she assaults it with a series of perfectly orchestrated hits and kicks, each placed for maximum pain, each as graceful as the next. When she finally settles, my mouth opens and closes, unsure of what to say. That was by far the sexiest, most surprising thing she's ever done, and I couldn't promise that I could control what would come from my mouth.

"Jace," she says impatiently, and I realize she's dropped from her stance, staring expectantly at me. She rolls her eyes dramatically, but her upturned lips give away her true feelings as I let the bag fall from my grip, swinging gently in the space between us. "What?" she asks incredulously, but with a laugh. "You think Valentine Morgenstern would let an able-bodied member of his mafia go to waste?" She smiles again, though it had fallen slightly at the mention of her father.

"You…" I start with a shake of my head. "You surprise me every day." I want to reach out to her, to pull her into my side and hold her there. Because I know the kinds of missions fighters like her would have gone on. I know the types of things she must have seen, must have _done_. I know what it's like to haul that weight around.

But I never initiate the contact. I give her total control in every situation. Because I refuse to be like the other men in her life. I refuse to box her in. I refuse to take what hasn't been given. But I do hold her tightly when she leans into my chest, kissing the top of her head as she settles in the circle of my arms. "They used to call me, 'The Hunter,'" she tells me, and I lean back to see her eyes, so wide and defenseless. I'd heard that nickname before, linked to a man who could track down even the most elusive men. Never had I dreamed that he could be this woman before me. "I've killed a lot of people." There's an emotionlessness to her voice, like if she doesn't allow herself to think about it, it might hurt less, like each bullet in a stranger doesn't tear right through her own chest.

"Me, too," I tell her earnestly, and she shakes her entire body, like she can shake off this conversation as she plasters another smile on her face.

"I'm going to shower before work. Black coffee today?" She's extracted herself from my embrace and is pulling her sweatshirt over her head as she waits for my answer.

"Sure," I say quietly to her retreating form, watching her disappear into the same realm of denial I've been ruling for years. A heavy sigh wracks my body as my eyes land on the bag.

. It's not that I'm ungrateful for the life I lead. With an impressive amount of wealth at my disposal, how can I feel anything but thankful for the familial dynasty that got me here. Yet, try as they might, my father and his father could not beat the humanity out of me. For years I've sheltered it, hid it behind steal walls and iron gates, frosting the glass of the windows to my soul, seemingly as heartless as the Herondale before. But deep inside these ancient fortifications, I am ashamed. My livelihood is pushing drugs, eliminating any enemy or challenge that comes my way. I ruin people's lives to improve mine. But I can't stop. The Herondale legacy dates back to the opium trades, with roots as deep as the Redwood Forest, as strong and steady as the Mississippi. It can't simply be shut off. It can't be _ended_.

I haven't struggled with these emotions since I was young, strapped to a wooden chair, cringing as my fingernails were removed one-by-one, gritting my teeth against the information they were begging for. On that side of the torture, I couldn't find any justification. In the pain. In the suffering. I've become a hypocrite, making men cower in my shadow as I loom above them, demanding similar answers, using similar tactics. Emotionless, soulless—or so it seems. Every life I take claims a piece of me, tearing holes through my being. And it didn't matter that I was missing parts of myself if I didn't care enough to pay attention. I've never desire to give my whole and entire self to someone, so this mutilated, partial version of me has always been enough.

And then Clary emerged from that limo, with her crazy red curls and battle scars, and I could suddenly feel the wind through those holes. Suddenly I felt empty. I was unworthy. I could never be enough. I'm half the man my mother would have wanted me to be. I'm no man at all. I'm a coward. Because I can't share this with her. I can't let her know how broken and small I am. I have all these different faces—powerful, brave, angry—but none of them are the weakling I truly am.

So here I am, trying to work through my frustrations, trying to dull the pain of the missing pieces by bruising my fists against the swinging bag, jab after jab.

Don't turn your fist.

 _Thud_.

Harder.

 _Thud_.

No mercy, son.

 _Thud._

I can hear his voice in my ear, coaching me, reprimanding me, lamenting that I'll never be a leader, that I'll never be strong enough.

 _Thud_.

I can't explain how many times I'd wanted to spin on my heal and land my fist into his smug face, how many times I wanted to land him on his ass and walk away triumphantly.

 _Thud_.

He died when I was only fourteen, but the scars he left were thick and deep. They're the kind that reopen frequently, the kind that never heal. They're infected, poisoned with his memory. He didn't know how to be a father. He didn't want a son, not for any purpose other than continuing the business. There wasn't a good bone in his body, not a selfless word on his tongue.

 _Crash_.

I stand, blood dripping from my knuckles to the floor as I watch the bag skid across the room and stop against the opposite wall, lying there, lifeless. I blink at it for a few moments, picturing old Stephen lying there instead. Bile rises in my throat as I crumple to my knees, sickened by the twisted path of my thoughts. He might not have been much of a father, but he was _my_ father. He was my blood, and try as I might, part of him is in me, waiting like a dragon in hibernation, biding its time until it sets the world on fire.


	19. Chapter 19

_Hello, hello, hello! For those of you new to the story, welcome! For those of you new to me, welcome! For those who've been to this story before, welcome back, and to those who have been with me since the beginning, I am eternally grateful for your support and patience and understanding._

 _I've been struggling with this story and how to tell it. As some of you know, I lost all my outlines, notes and chapters for this story when my laptop broke a few months ago. Rereading it, trying to remember all the places I wanted it to go, there were some things that I wasn't happy with, some things I wanted to add or change._

 _So I've decided to edit and re-upload my chapters. The general storyline has not changed, so feel free to skip these chapters right to the new one, but I've definitely added some additional content, some direction, and some fluff. :)_

 _During my hiatus, I've been writing, working on other projects, and wrestling with a part of my past that I've not yet been strong enough to deal with, but I'm hoping to be back and better than ever, and hold myself accountable for updating!_

 _Thanks for sticking with me through thick and through thin, just like we stick with our faves from the Mortal Instruments. 3_

 _I'm putting the same A/N at the beginning of all updated chapters, so if you're reading this right now, feel free to skip it every time following. I love and appreciate every single one of you. And for whoever needs it, you are not your past. You are not the wrongs done to you. You are worthy and strong and so entirely perfect. Please know that._

 _Love you all._

* * *

 **Dancing With Demons**

 **Chapter 19: Forced Truths**

 **Song: The Sound of Silence – Disturbed**

* * *

I glare at my coffee cup when I shove through the door of my office, the steam curling through the air in white, opaque ribbons, dancing as I close the door behind me and slam my files onto the desk. It's mocking me, winking at me from the corner of my eye. How could Clary seem so unaffected by this lifestyle, by the memory of each kill? How do their glassy, lifeless eyes not haunt her every moment? How can she remember and forget as easily as flipping a switch?

"Boss," Alec greets gruffly as he shoves through the door, his burner phone in one hand, a smear of blood across his cheek. His black sweater is riddled with holes, more blood seeping into the fabric. My palms press flat against the desk as I fly from my seat, sending papers and pens to the floor with the quick motion, all thoughts of anger and coffee and Clary momentarily forgotten. Fear pierces the ice wall of my chest, as my eyes scan my friend, my _brother_ , for the wound dripping crimson onto the floor. "It's not mine," he says hastily, tugging gently at his collar before smudging the blood further across his face.

"Who's is it then?" My voice is hard, harder than expected, and Alec winces, his blue eyes usually as guarded and toughened as mine show genuine anguish. My heartbeat stalls in my chest, the face of each person I've ever loved flashing before my eyes. Isabelle, with her ferocious eyes and maddening smile. Max, with his glasses at the end of his nose and a contagious laugh. And Clary—

"Just come with me." He doesn't pause to make sure I follow before disappearing through the door. My laden footsteps reluctantly follow, every horrifying scenario running through my mind. Raid, rebellion, each ends with one I care about lying in a pool of their own blood, having trusted me to protect them, to fight for them, to die for them. Clary's not at her desk as I pass by, my pace increasing as Alec leads us to the stairwell, lower and lower until we reach the ground floor, the lobby cordoned off by caution tape, though there's not a policeman in sight. And there never would be.

Alec ducks beneath it, the empty lobby as silent as a cemetery, as eerie as the forest at night. I steel my nerves, my emotions, and continue to follow, stopping at the edge of the blood. A body—no, a _girl_ , no older than fourteen—rests in it, brown eyes wide, mouth parted, a crimson hole through her forehead, dripping into silky blond hair. "She's not one of ours," Alec says softly. It's meant to be a reassurance, one to reaffirm that I hadn't failed my members. Instead, it tightens the knot in my stomach. An innocent, killed only to send me a message.

"What's her name?"

"I have Simon working on it." I nod, but only because another word would show how much this has truly affected me. I'm supposed to be numb to death. It should have no effect over me.

"Have someone clean this up." My stomach churns at the crassness of my words, but I turn on my heel before Alec can see. "Gather Izzy and Simon. Meet in my office in ten." Once alone in the stairwell, I slam my fist into the wall, pain exploding in my knuckles, opening the wounds from earlier. It feels good to bleed. It's grounding. It reminds me that my existence is as meaningless, as fragile as that girl's. The probability of my death is just as likely as Alec's, as Simon's, as the waitress who delivers my pancakes from Taki's. It's a part of life, inevitable.

When my breathing has finally returned to normal, I drag my body up the stairs, back to my office. "Come in with Alec and Izzy," I mumble to Clary quietly as I pass her desk, finding her typing furiously at her computer. The sound pounds through my brain, and I slam the door behind me, picturing the jump that accompanies the squeak she makes.

No more than two minutes later, Alec and Izzy enter, trailed by Simon, who's clutching his laptop to his chest, and Clary, who's eyes remain glued to the floor. I don't have to explain the situation, thankfully, because Alec beats me to it. After he fills them in, Simon walks through what he's done so far, though he has yet to have any more information. Alec and Izzy converse about what this might mean. This all swirls around me, like I'm the center of a ring of ripples in a pond. Their words drift away, and all I can see is Clary, lying helpless in that puddle of blood.

When I resurface, Isabelle is blinking at me expectantly. I shake away the fog. "What?" There's concern in her dark eyes, but she smartly avoids it.

"I said that you and Clary need to be fitted for your gala outfits." I wave that away, leaning back in my chair.

"Just use my usual measurements." There's no way I've put on any weight under all this stress. I might have even lost a few pounds.

"Ohhh-kay," she draws out, setting her attention on the redhead in the corner. It's then I realize that night has fallen, the shadows usually lingering at the edges having crept into the center of the room. "I just need a few quick measurements." I watch her carefully, seeing the redhead close in on herself as Isabelle approaches, measuring tape in hand. "Just waist and shoulders should do for now." Clary shifts uncomfortably. "I just need to—" Isabelle's hands lift Clary's cable knit sweater before anyone can stop her, gasps echoing as they all see it.

 _Sebastian_.

Simon's eyes cut to mine, but I ignore him. "Clary," I say soothingly, but she's already running from the room, her face buried in her hands as the three others gape in shock.

"Get out," I tell all of them in my _boss_ voice, chasing Clary through the halls, down the stairs. She's already in a taxi before I can catch her, my heart trapped in my throat as I fumble for my keys, squealing the tires from the garage as I fight to follow her. The sky opens up around us as I drive, finding it to be the familiar path home, but my mind won't settle, even as I watch her jump from the cab, dashing through the rain to the front door, oblivious to my peering eyes.

Maybe Jonathon was wrong. Being with me is no safer than being with the Demons. Maybe I'm just as bad for her as Valentine. Maybe being with me will get her killed. And that is the most terrifying thought to ever cross my mind.


	20. Chapter 20

_Hello, hello, hello! For those of you new to the story, welcome! For those of you new to me, welcome! For those who've been to this story before, welcome back, and to those who have been with me since the beginning, I am eternally grateful for your support and patience and understanding._

 _I've been struggling with this story and how to tell it. As some of you know, I lost all my outlines, notes and chapters for this story when my laptop broke a few months ago. Rereading it, trying to remember all the places I wanted it to go, there were some things that I wasn't happy with, some things I wanted to add or change._

 _So I've decided to edit and re-upload my chapters. The general storyline has not changed, so feel free to skip these chapters right to the new one, but I've definitely added some additional content, some direction, and some fluff. :)_

 _During my hiatus, I've been writing, working on other projects, and wrestling with a part of my past that I've not yet been strong enough to deal with, but I'm hoping to be back and better than ever, and hold myself accountable for updating!_

 _Thanks for sticking with me through thick and through thin, just like we stick with our faves from the Mortal Instruments. 3_

 _I'm putting the same A/N at the beginning of all updated chapters, so if you're reading this right now, feel free to skip it every time following. I love and appreciate every single one of you. And for whoever needs it, you are not your past. You are not the wrongs done to you. You are worthy and strong and so entirely perfect. Please know that._

 _Love you all._

* * *

 **Dancing With Demons**

 **Chapter 20: Lifted Demon**

 **Song: Silence – Marshmello, Khalid**

* * *

"Come 'ere," I tell the shadows of my bedroom as I hover in the pooled light of the doorframe. It had taken me an embarrassingly long time to calm myself to the point where I could form a thought that didn't involve mass slaughter, and now the moon is cresting the sky as I watch her blanketed body shift, a sigh falling from her lips as I drag her from the depths of sleep. I await the emergence of a creamy arm, pulling the pillow from over her head to glare at me with tired but burning emerald eyes. Instead, she lifts her body as one unit, with uncharacteristic stealth and silence. Every inch of her is covered in thick, flannel fabric, despite the blistering heatwave pressing down on the atmosphere, sweat and rain causing her beautiful curls to cling to her forehead, tears gluing them to her cheeks. I hate myself more in this moment than I've hated anyone my entire life. I shouldn't have let her be alone. I shouldn't have disappeared within myself. I should have been here.

I wish there was a word to describe how she looks in this moment, because surely if it could be put in to diction, it would have put a limit to the existential pain rolling from her in thick, heavy waves, capping how broken she'd be allowed to feel. Instead, her sadness, her shame, her humiliation, it's infinite. It surpasses the tallest mountains, the farthest galaxies, chasing the ever-expanding boundary of space. All while entrapped in the smallest human I've ever met, biding its time until she might explode.

She doesn't even have to come into the light for me to see it. I can feel it. Every agonizing inch of it like it's sewn into my own soul. And I wish I could take it from her, absorb every unwarranted, hateful feeling running through her overactive brain, swallow every tear, every dark invasive thought and breathe light into her. Because what she's feeling, it's not organic. Those startled gasps in that room, those horrified eyes, those disgusted mouths—they've all taught her to be ashamed, of her past, of herself. They've rooted this alien emotion in the pit of her stomach, ignoring her glowing radiance only to draw attention to the scars of her past.

She sniffles, and I feel myself shattering into a million, rusted pieces, scattering at her feet, hoping that one may be shiny enough to reflect how I see her. Strong, powerful, independent, beautiful—words I can't get past my swollen tongue. Instead, I extend slender fingers in her direction, watching her take them softly, tentatively, with downcast eyes, refusing to witness another judement, protecting herself the only way she knows how. "Don't close yourself off from me," I beg, my voice cracking slightly at the end. My fingers have moved beneath her chin, lifting gently to bring her gaze to mine.

And I've always prided myself in being a closed book, in shielding every thought, every emotion so that no enemy might predict my next move, my weaknesses. But in this moment, I can only hope she knows what I see when I look at her. Because words can only do so much. A small, nervous smile graces her lips, and I can't help but press it against my own, feeling her warm lips pucker and part against mine, her fingers flexing as I tangle my free hand into her hair.

I fight my instincts. I pull away, a bit breathlessly, and push the curls from her cheek. "Let me take you somewhere." I whisper it, like a secret, not wanting to break the serenity that's fallen upon us, this trance that's opened us to each other like none before. "Please," I add at her hesitation, deftly weaving our fingers together as I wait for a response. At the slightest of nods, I'm fumbling for my keys, pulling her through the front door and toward my Corvette.

"Jace?" she finally speaks in a voice so small it rattles my bones. I glance up at what floor the elevator is on before looking at her. "Shouldn't I change first?" I can't fight the laugh that escapes me, and from the corner of my eye, I catch a fleeting smile. I turn toward her, pulling the collar of her shirt between my thumb and index finger, not paying it much attention as I use my other thumb to brush her lower lip.

"I quite like this look."

We lapse into slience as I drive, casting fleeting glances at her every few moments. Her attention is focused hard on the window, the streetlamps illuminating the hollowness in her eyes as they flash by. I press harder against the gas, my fingers tight around the steering wheel.

I want so much to hit something, to return to that moment this afternoon and prevent it, to scream at Isabelle until my face turns blue and my voice hoarse. But that would only draw unwanted attention. That would make it seem like I care.

I pull to a stop at the curb, turning to her as I put my Corvette in park. Without the signs lit up, it looks just like any other business on the side of the street, so I pray she puts her faith in me. I open the door for her, helping her onto the curb before leading her inside. "Thanks, Magnus," I tell the purple-haired man waiting behind the counter as we enter. He smiles gently, accented by his glittering blue eyeshadow and matching top hot. He's a bit eccentric, but his heart is pure. He drops a set of keys into my palm.

"Just lock up when you're done." There's a jingling noise as he walks away, disappearing in a flash of headlights.

"What are we doing here?" she asks, tentatively, appraising the sketches that litter the walls.

Instead of answering her question, I tug my shirt over my head, dropping it to the floor with a soft swoosh. Her breath catches in her throat at the abrupt motion, her eyes flickering over my face. Searching, always searching.

"I only get tattoos that mean something," I tell her, unsure why I can't stop these words from tumbling from my mouth. "The lines, they meant freedom—from my father, my past." Her fingers curiously trail the inky lines curving over my shoulders, wrapping around my torso and sweeping up my back. They not only hide the scars littering my skin, but also helped me regain control of how I viewed myself, pain covering pain. "I got the skull for my grandfather," I nod to the bones on the inside of my elbow, the mouth twisted in a sinister smile. "He took me under his wing after my father passed. He trained me, prepared me for this life." Her fingers dust over the morbid picture, surpassing it to press against the three red drops above my heart, my only colored tattoo. "The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb," I quote, covering her fingers with my hand, stilling their ministrations against my heavy, steady heartbeat. "These are for Alec, Isabelle, and Max—more family to me than my own DNA." She doesn't ask what the tally marks on my ribcage are, nor about the fresh one, puckered red like the scars he'd left on her back. There were ninety-six of them. Ninety-six lives reduced to a line on my skin.

My most recent addition burns, begging to be revealed, but I ball my left hand into a fist, my secret hidden beneath the cool metallic ring encircling my finger. "I want to give that to you. I want you to look at yourself and see the person _you_ want to be." She leans into my palm as I settle it beside her cheek, her eyes closing softly.

"Did you do all these yourself?" She asks suddenly, her eyes opening slowly to appraise my tattoos once more.

"Magnus did the lines, but the rest…well, yeah. He's the main tattoo artist at my parlor—"

"Your parlor?" I crack a smile.

"My life's not all drug trafficking, okay? I do have some legitimate businesses out here."

"Right, sorry." Her gaze has dropped to her toes again, and I gently lift it back to mine.

"Don't apologize, Clary. You never have to apologize." I take her hand, leading her back to the table. Her eyes continue to scan the art on the walls. "What do you say, Clary? Will you let me do this for you?" She stays silent for a long time, eyes trailing all around the room before landing on me, set with strength and resolve. Her mouth opens, and for a moment, I think she's about to speak. Without warning, her lips are against mine, hot and fervent, opening to me, her hands exploring my bare skin, her heartbeat erratic against mine. When she pulls away, she's glowing.

"Okay," she whispers in the millimeters between our mouths. "I want to see me like you see me, Jace." She brings our lips together once more before backing into the table. There's no hesitation when she drops her shirt to the ground, lying face down with her deepest secrets on full display. With a shaky breath, I wash my hands and pull on my gloves, collecting the ink and setting up the gun.

"Is this okay?" I ask gently, brushing my fingertips along the clasp of her bra, flicking it open at her silent nod.

"I trust you," she whispers, her eyes slipping shut as I smooth my hand down her back. Of course, when I'd decided to do this, I'd had an idea in my mind. She winces but doesn't cry out as I begin my freehanded design, her fingers clasping tightly to my right hand as I move the tattoo gun across her skin.

The tattoo takes all night, and when I finally set the gun down, the sun is breaking the horizon. "Go check it out," I tell her as she blinks tiredly up at me. My hands lift her gently from the table as she walks slowly to the floor length mirror on the opposite wall, turning her back to it and looking over her shoulder.

The sun hits her as her eyes light up, a brilliant smile splitting her face, her body surrounded in a golden haze. Tears glitter down her cheeks as she continues to stare. "Is this how you see me, Jace?" she asks in a whisper. Enveloped in sunshine, the woman before me beams, two angel wings curving down her back, turning her shame, her pain into heavenly beauty.

But I just smile, worried my words might shatter the purity of this moment.

Finally, when her back is to me, and she's smiling at her own reflection, I find my voice.

"I see nothing _but_ you, Clary."


	21. Chapter 21

**Begin – Shallou, Wales**

Work is as usual, all tight-lipped smiles and curt responses, tasks yelled gruffly through his closed office door, a seemingly scheduled storming in and out of the building, growled insults into his cellphone, deliveries that need to be tracked and completed, Alec breezing in and promptly getting kicked out. I can barely keep my eyes opened, my mouth hovering over the empty mug of fourth cup of coffee, blinking exhaustedly as I attempt to organize Jace's weekly agenda, accidentally planning two overlapping meetings. The only new activity is the series of phone calls, strategically on the hour. "This is the office of Jace Herondale. My I ask whom I am speaking with?" There are a few, soft breaths, a whispered hello, and then a click.

It should be terrifying, would be, had I not been able to hear Jace's desk phone being returned to its cradle after each call, followed by a muffled chuckle, a reminder that every angered look, every ignored remark—they're an act. They mean nothing, a simple façade to protect their dynamic. This time, though, when the phone rings, it's at 2:37. The smile slips from my lips. "This is the office of Jace Herondale. May I ask who is speaking?" There's a sigh of relief.

"Clary—" It's Isabelle, sounding a bit frazzled. I can hear the afternoon rain hitting the pavement around her, the wind whipping into the microphone. "I'm coming from the warehouse, and I forgot my access card, can you buzz me up?" I open the security tab on my computer, just as Jace had taught me, seeing Izzy shivering and soaking in a tissue blouse, clinging to her skin while her hair is pasted to her cheeks. "Of course." I hang up the phone as I unlock the doors to the building, feeling only a bit creepy watching her walk toward the elevators. I minimize the tab once she disappears into it, continuing with Jace's schedule. Minutes later, Isabelle bursts into the room, a trail of water following her as she tosses her damp hair over her shoulder.

Even soaking wet, Izzy is quite easily the most beautiful woman I have ever met, with enviable curves and makeup that's never smudged, she's the perfect woman, the perfect warrior. "Thank you so much," she breathes, and I reach beneath my desk to produce the sweater I'd left there a few days ago. Just the two of us in the room, Izzy strips off her wet shirt, pulling the sweater over her head. Even my own clothes fit this woman better. "You are honestly a lifesaver." I give her a curt nod, returning to my seat and pulling it closer to the keyboard. "Listen, Clary—"

"Please, don't even mention it," I tell her with a dismissive hand, making great effort not to clip my words. "Just don't try to tear my clothes off in public anymore." Isabelle laughs, a sound like a nervous bell until I find myself joining in. There's something so real about Izzy, so genuine that I can't be mad at her. She's a woman that knows she's beautiful but doesn't flaunt it. She's self-aware and unapologetically herself that I find myself wanting to be her friend.

"Got it," she replies quickly, before her lips part like she's had an epiphany. She reaches into her handbag and removes a travel cup. "It's from your favorite coffee shop. Jace mentioned you liked the macchiatos there." She extends it in my direction, and I tentatively take it. "Jace might not always show it in public, but he cares about you. More than you know." She winks, and for lack of reply, I begin to drink the steamy beverage, like it's the only thing keeping me alive.

"Jace is in his office," I tell her when I'm finished, but she shakes her head.

"Oh, no, Mrs. Herondale, I only came here to see you." My name sounds foreign to me. I've only ever been Clary. To those my family, to those men, to Jace—but I like the way it flows, like that it links me to the powerful man behind that closed door. "I still need to get your measurements for the gown. Maybe I can swing by tonight…?"

She dangles the question out for me like bait, a hopefulness in her eyes, almost like she imagines we might become…friends.

The Hunter and the Siren—there is not a more fitting duo.

"I think that will be okay—"

"What will be okay?" Jace asks, emerging from his office with a folder in his hands. "Isabelle," he nods his head toward his sister, though his eyes flicker back to Clary.

"Izzy is going to come over tonight to fit me for my dress." Jace's brows furrow, like he's asking me if that's what I want, like he's ready to give me an out. "I think it will be fine." I say it like it's directed at Isabelle, though Jace knows it's really for him.

"Great! I'll swing by right after work."

Isabelle leaves with a flourish, and I can feel the blood draining from my face. The reality is crushing down on me all at once, as if the impending party is going to solidify everything.

It's not that being married to Jace is horrible. He's kind and generous, and he hasn't asked me to give him anything I'm not ready for. But the idea of being owned by other mafia leader, of falling into the same loop that I've been in endlessly for seventeen years. It's suffocating, strangling.

"It's too late for cold feet, Clary," Jace murmurs, his lips pressed right against my ear. It makes me shiver, pleasantly. "We're already married." And just like that, my fears are quelled, because a stupid party isn't going to change anything. "I've got a delivery tonight but have fun with Izzy. She can certainly be a handful." I roll my eyes at the understatement of the century, and Jace's laughter disappears with him down the hallway.

X.O.X.O.X

 **Say It First – Sam Smith**

"Don't come in," I manage to shout later that day as I hear the front door opening, clutching the lace folds of the ballgown, the sparkling beads pressing into my skin as I lift the skirts, hurrying from my position in front of the floor-length mirror to the safety of the walk-in closet.

"Are you okay?' his voice floats in through the vents, concern edging every word. I can imagine the furrow in his brow, his hand reaching for the gun in his waistband.

"I am fine," I affirm, sliding my arms from the long, lacey sleeves and shimmying out of the dress before zipping it securely into the bag. Pulling on one of Jace's t-shirts, I pull open the door, revealing the exact image I'd formulated in my head. He blinks at my outfit. I blink at the gun pointed over my shoulder.

"Sorry," he apologizes, setting the gun on the table in the hallway. "Habit." I nod, unafraid of the cold, unyielding piece of metal. The only thing that makes it scary is the person wielding it, and Jace is disciplined enough to know when to pull the trigger and when to hold his fire. "How does it look?" I'd expected him to be rather blasé about the dress, but there's genuine curiosity in his eyes as he peers around me toward the closet. I push on his chest, leading us from the bedroom and to the sofa.

"Not so fast. Isabelle said you aren't allowed to see it." He groans, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling.

"That woman is ruining my life." I laugh in soft agreement, tucking my feet beneath me when I notice he's wearing his leather jacket and combat boots, typical attire for a delivery. He notices my gaze. "Routine stuff. I should be back by midnight. If you're still awake, I could grab takeout, and we could see what's on HBO."

I crack a smile. "Why HBO? Are you embarrassed of your Netflix list?" If Jace Herondale could blush, he would be right now, pleading with his eyes not to reveal his secrets. "Macho mob boss Jace Herondale secretly watches _Phineas and Ferb_." He groans, covering his eyes with one hand and sinking further into the couch.

"If you tell anyone," he says in his _boss_ voice, though there's humor in it, "I might have to lock you up and never set you free." I'm doubled over with laughter as his half-hearted threats continue to fill the space around us, punctuated every so often by me listing off another show from his Netflix. _Powerpuff Girls, Scooby Doo,_ and various Disney movies all come to mind. When I finally settle, he's looking at me with unreadable eyes.

"How did you get this one?" he asks suddenly, his long, agile fingers gently sweeping over the scar at my shoulder, exposed by the sleeve slipping down my arm. It's the only one the tattoo couldn't quite hide. I shiver under his touch, but I pull the blanket on the back of the couch over my shoulders, hoping to hide the effect he has over me. The TV in front of me remains all but forgotten as I lose myself to those eyes—blue, set with resolve. They were the eyes of a man who knew he was going to die, the eyes of a man who'd long ago accepted this fate. "You don't have to tell me," he whispers, so lowly it does little to break my trance.

I can feel his hand covering my own, clenched into fists tight enough to leave crescent moons in my palms, but all I can see is that cement parking structure, with its blood-spattered floors and my stolen innocence. I shake my head to clear away the vision, chewing my lip enough to draw blood. Jace gently smooths it from its confines, his finger coming away red. "I will…someday," I qualify, shrinking in on myself as if becoming small enough would just make me disappear. He nods silently, understandingly, lapsing into silence once more.

"I'll be back soon. Don't touch my Netflix!" he says finally, and my heart beats unsteadily in my chest. Routine delivery. Stuff they do every week. He's gone out on so many in the short time that we've been together, but something seems different.

He disappears before I can decipher these emotions, but I realize they all lead back to one thing. _The macchiato_. "Jace!" I yell, running for the door and wrenching it open just as the elevator arrives. He's startled but catches me as I throw myself into his arms, kissing him desperately, with more passion that all of our previous kisses. "Be safe," I order him, our lips still brushing against each other, the elevator forgotten as he cradles me in his arms. Our foreheads are pressed together, our breaths mixing in the air between us, chests heaving.

And then he smiles, the most heartbreaking, panty-dropping smile that I've never seen on his face before, lighting up his eyes, his face, his aurora as he presses the button for the elevator once more. "I will."

X.O.X.O.X

I've already fallen asleep by the time Jace returns. I don't hear the door open, just the sound of his footsteps as he shuffles through to the bathroom. Light floods through the opened door, and that's when I see him, stripping the shredded shirt from his body, throwing it to the floor as he appraises the wounds in the mirror, a series of scrapes and bullet grazes, burned black at the edges. The way he eyes them is cool, calculated, like he's unconcerned by the mapping of fresh cuts lacing up his chest.

I can see the three fresh tallies at his hip, a list of kills, I'd deduced, and his wedding ring glints between specs of blood as he runs his thumb across them. "Jace," I whisper, a quiet but earth-shattering sound. His eyes find mine, all the smiles, all the laughter from earlier gone, replaced with two, hardened amber gemstones, flickering across my face, searching.

"I'm fine," he tells me gruffly, moving to close the bathroom door, but I'm already beside him, taking the washcloth from his hands and running it beneath hot water. He doesn't hiss when I clean his cuts. He doesn't flinch or shrink away. They are shallow, not worthy of stitches, but I disinfect them, gnawing on my lip as he watches my actions. He refuses bandages, rinsing the rag in the sink until the water no longer runs pink. Then he tosses it on the floor, a motion so unlike Jace. He doesn't touch me as he passes by, removing his boots and jeans and falling into bed.

"What happened?" I whisper, touching his face with gentle fingers, hoping and praying that he doesn't pull away. He does.

"The Demons knew we were coming," he replies, not without anger. I know it's not specifically directed at me, but it stings all the same, like he might be accusing me of sharing secrets, like he thinks I'm a rat. "Max got in the crossfire. I had to save him." _Max_ , Izzy and Alec's younger brother whom I have yet to meet.

"Is he alright?" Jace sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, revealing bruised and swollen knuckles.

"He will be. He just hit his head pretty hard. Took a bullet to the arm" He falls into silence, leaving me to wonder if he's fallen asleep. I don't look at him, fear paralyzing me. He thinks I've done wrong, that I've stepped out of line. He could hurt me, sell me, or if he's feeling merciful, kill me. I know the kind of things he's capable of. They're the kind of things my own father would do.

I don't realize my whole body is shaking until Jace's arms are around me, pulling me firmly against his chest. It's calming, his heartbeat steady against my spine, his breath fanning over my ear. "I know you had nothing to do with it, Clary." Heat bursts from me when his lips move behind my ear, placing sweet, chaste kisses against the sensitive skin there. "I'm not going to hurt you."

I release an unsteady breath, and Jace's warm, throaty chuckle resounds in my ear. I can't deny how much I want this man, how much I desire to run my hands over his skin, to mold our lips together, to scream his name in the throes of passion.

But his soft snores have replaced the kisses, his arms still like iron bars holding me against his chest. And for once, I don't feel trapped. I feel loved.


	22. Chapter 22

_Hello, hello, hello! For those of you new to the story, welcome! For those of you new to me, welcome! For those who've been to this story before, welcome back, and to those who have been with me since the beginning, I am eternally grateful for your support and patience and understanding._

 _I've been struggling with this story and how to tell it. As some of you know, I lost all my outlines, notes and chapters for this story when my laptop broke a few months ago. Rereading it, trying to remember all the places I wanted it to go, there were some things that I wasn't happy with, some things I wanted to add or change._

 _So I've decided to edit and re-upload my chapters. The general storyline has not changed, so feel free to skip these chapters right to the new one, but I've definitely added some additional content, some direction, and some fluff. :)_

 _During my hiatus, I've been writing, working on other projects, and wrestling with a part of my past that I've not yet been strong enough to deal with, but I'm hoping to be back and better than ever, and hold myself accountable for updating!_

 _Thanks for sticking with me through thick and through thin, just like we stick with our faves from the Mortal Instruments. 3_

 _I'm putting the same A/N at the beginning of all updated chapters, so if you're reading this right now, feel free to skip it every time following. I love and appreciate every single one of you. And for whoever needs it, you are not your past. You are not the wrongs done to you. You are worthy and strong and so entirely perfect. Please know that._

 _Love you all._

* * *

 **Dancing With Demons**

 **Chapter 22: Drinking Demons**

 **Song: Sleep Is Not an Option – Seth Cook**

* * *

Isabelle seats herself atop my desk the next afternoon, Friday excitement radiating off her in waves. Who knew that the mafia kept regular business hours? "Whatcha doing tonight?" she chirps, swinging her long legs back and forth, drawing attention to the thigh high leather boots she's sporting.

Jace hadn't come in to the office today, opting to sleep off his injuries, but I had insisted on prepping his schedule for the upcoming week. I should have agreed to stay in bed with him simply to avoid this conversation. "Probably eating dinner and watching some _Real Housewives_."

Her jaw drops. "Uh-uh, nope, not acceptable." A movement down the hall draws her attention. "Yo, Lewis, what are you doing tonight?" The boy with the glasses appears sheepishly from behind the wall, where he'd been desperately trying to scurry away without detection. "We're going to Pandemonium, gather the crew." There's a fear in his eyes. Knowing that he can't say no, he nods and hurries out of view. "It's settled then, I'll be over to dress you."

I can't deny her. Knowing that she's a mercenary and also singlehandedly the most persuasive woman on the planet, I spare myself the time and agree before gathering my things. I head home with Izzy hot on my heels. She shoves me into the closet before I can even greet Jace, who's still sprawled out in bed, completely oblivious to the tornado his sister is tearing through his house. "Clary?" he asks sleepily no fewer than twenty minutes later, "who's in the closet with you?"

"A masked murderer, help me!" I respond, but Isabelle claps a hand over my mouth.

"Shut up and go put on some clothes, we are going to Pandemonium!"

"How am I supposed to put on clothes when you're barricaded in my closet?" Isabelle huffs and throws an outfit at him ordering him to the other side of the penthouse before returning to me. She's carefully perusing my closet, though I know every single item was hand-selected by her already. I can't help but pick at my nails.

When Isabelle was fitting me for my dress, I'd kept a t-shirt on, worried about what she might think of the scars and tattoos down my back. My eyes widen as she presents me with a backless, black dress, one that will barely cover my ass. "Izzy, I—"  
"Strip," she commands in a way that has me pulling my clothes off before I can even think about it. She gasps, spinning me around before I can protest, her cold fingers running along the skin of my back. "Did…did Jace do this?" I throw my hair back to cover his handiwork, nodding in embarrassment. She brushes my hair aside again, unconcerned with my discomfort. "Jace _never_ tattoos anyone except himself." Her fingers continue to trail over the wings. "It's beautiful." She rests a hand on my shoulder, turning me around again. "Clary, you're beautiful. Now put this on."

I sit through an hour of Isabelle applying my makeup, only for her to spend two seconds mussing my curls. "Jace likes your hair down. He's always brighter when you have it down." I give her an incredulous look, like the way I wear my hair can actually affect his mood. She shrugs like it's just the way the world is. "Done!" she announces, hurrying me from the room, so quickly I barely have time to process the look Jace gives me.

Appreciation?

Protectiveness?

Mixed with a little bit of desire?

"The party bus is rolling out!" Isabelle talks all the way to the club, but I can't pay attention. Jace's eyes are burning a hole in me, leaving a hot path everywhere they touch. "What do you want to drink?" she asks upon arrival, worming her way up against the bar as I reach for my purse. "Oh, please, the drinks are on Jace tonight. He owns the place after all."

He owns a club? I didn't realize I'd said it out loud until Isabelle responds. "He owns it, but I practically run the place. I think we'd both agree that Pandemonium is my secret lovechild."

"I don't know what I want," I tell her, realizing she's still waiting on a drink order.

"Jesus, girl, when's the last time you had fun."

"Never, really," I tell her. Realizing how pitiful that sounds, I add, "I just turned eighteen."

"Oh, god, you and Jace didn't—he didn't—with a minor?"

"No! No, we haven't…no." I blush.

"Thank the Angel. I know he's a bad guy and all, but underneath everything, he's a really good man." As if she hadn't just spouted the heaviest, most sentimental thing she'd said all night, Isabelle turns toward the bartender. "Go big or go home! Two tequila shots, please!"

X.O.X.O.X

"Am I dying?" I ask as I crack an eyelid, wincing at the light not drown out by the blinds. The bed shakes as a chuckle rumbles through Jace's chest. "Oh, Angel, I might be sick." This only pulls another laugh from his chest, though this time he presents me with a few pills and a bottle of water. He's smiling down at me, like he knows something that I don't. "What did I do last night," I grumble, knowing a smile like that can only mean I'd severely humiliated myself.

"Well, for starters, you professed your undying love to a stripper named Candy as she gave you a lap dance Isabelle payed for." I throw an arm over my eyes. Not the worst thing that could have happened. "Then, Isabelle made me announce in front of everyone that I didn't have sex with you while you were a minor, to which you added that I hadn't had sex with you at all." I laugh.

"That's a bigger blow to your ego than to mine."

"Then you threw up on Alec's shoes, threw up again when apologizing, and threw back another tequila shot." He's biting back against a smile at my embarrassment. "You had a lot of fun, though." I fumble on the nightstand for my phone, finding that I'd slept through most of the day.

"What is on my—is this peanut butter?" I swipe my fingers across my phone screen, finding it sticky.

"When I brought you home, you insisted I make you a peanut butter sandwich and wouldn't go to bed until I made you one." He breaks down into laughter, unable to compose himself long enough to finish the story, forcing him to talk like a toddler. "Then you…you stripped off all your clothes…and attempted to face time through the sandwich…while taking a bite of your phone."

"Oh, my god."

"I think you, hands down, had the most awesome blackout ever." Screw toddler. He sounds like a teenage girl.

"Fuck off, Jace. I'm going back to sleep." Hungover Clary has fewer reservations and insecurities…much like drunk Clary, apparently.

"It was cute," he assures me, touching my cheek gently. It's then that I realize I've missed a very important detail.

"Jace…" I say his name slowly, like I'm waiting to explode. I pull the blankets up to my chin. "Am I naked right now." His hysterical laughter returns, and I decided I don't want to hear the story behind putting naked, peanut butter Clary to bed. "Shut the hell up, Jace, and don't even think about touching me." He stifles his laughter with his hand, but I press my body back against him, regardless of my state of undress, and I don't shy away when he loops his arm around my middle, a safe distance away from anything scandalous. "Thanks for the fun night," I tell him earnestly, though it's cut off by a yawn.

"Anytime, love," he whispers, pressing a kiss behind my ear before my headache puts me back to sleep.


	23. Chapter 23

_Hello, hello, hello! For those of you new to the story, welcome! For those of you new to me, welcome! For those who've been to this story before, welcome back, and to those who have been with me since the beginning, I am eternally grateful for your support and patience and understanding._

 _I've been struggling with this story and how to tell it. As some of you know, I lost all my outlines, notes and chapters for this story when my laptop broke a few months ago. Rereading it, trying to remember all the places I wanted it to go, there were some things that I wasn't happy with, some things I wanted to add or change._

 _So I've decided to edit and re-upload my chapters. The general storyline has not changed, so feel free to skip these chapters right to the new one, but I've definitely added some additional content, some direction, and some fluff. :)_

 _During my hiatus, I've been writing, working on other projects, and wrestling with a part of my past that I've not yet been strong enough to deal with, but I'm hoping to be back and better than ever, and hold myself accountable for updating!_

 _Thanks for sticking with me through thick and through thin, just like we stick with our faves from the Mortal Instruments. 3_

 _I'm putting the same A/N at the beginning of all updated chapters, so if you're reading this right now, feel free to skip it every time following. I love and appreciate every single one of you. And for whoever needs it, you are not your past. You are not the wrongs done to you. You are worthy and strong and so entirely perfect. Please know that._

 _Love you all._

* * *

 **Dancing With Demons**

 **Chapter 23: Dead Demons**

 **Song: Don't Matter - Lauv**

* * *

"Finished," Isabelle beams at me, fixing one last piece of hair before standing back to observe her handiwork. "Go put on the dress!"

"Don't I even get to look at myself first?" I glare at her, but the smile shows through as I disappear into her closet, pulling the dress up my silken legs and slipping my arms through the sleeves. "Izzy?" I call, watching the girl appear and hover in the doorway. "Can you do up this corset?" There's surprise in her eyes when I twist to reveal my back, the tattoo an intricate weaving of grayscale feathers on my skin.

"Wow," she whispers, her fingers grazing the design. For once, I don't shy away from the touch. I smile, watching her take it all in. "Did Jace do this?" I nod, a sly smile creeping onto my face at the memory of his hands on me, of the words he said to me. "Hang on a second." Isabelle disappears for a moment before returning with scissors and thread. I wait in silence as she finishes, only cringing once at the sound of her cutting fabric. "Perfect," she tells me, smoothing the skirts around me before turning me in the direction of the mirror.

The girl before me is a stranger, with braided curls held up by sparkling pins, rogue lips and golden eyelids. She wears a gown of lace and gemstones, much to beautiful for a girl like me, and when I turn to the side, the back has been cut away, revealing two, thick angel's wings. "It's beautiful," I murmur, touching my own reflection.

" _You're_ beautiful," Isabelle corrects, having slipped into her own ball gown, silky fabric running over her frame like a silver waterfall. "And you're going to be late if we don't leave right now."

She grabs my hand and has me running through the halls, into the limousine waiting at the front of her building. The gala is being held in Jace's building, but Isabelle insist that I get ready at her place, not wanting Jace to sneak any peaks at me before the big reveal. _We're already married,_ I'd said. _The curse thing doesn't really apply_.

Isabelle had merely shrugged. _I know_ , she told me. _I've just never seen Jace speechless before._ The drive is short, and soon, Isabelle and I are ascending the stairs to the ballroom. He's waiting at the top, chatting with Alec, who looks startlingly handsome in a navy suit, a glass of champagne in his fingertips. His eyes find me first, his elbow reaching out to alert Jace. When he turns to me, it's like the sun has exploded, leaving me blind to everything except him.

His golden hair is in perfect disarray as always, his soft lips parting into a small _o_ as his molten eyes study me, up and down, slow like molasses, warm like fire. He's wearing a gray suit, deepening the tan of his honeyed skin, subdue enough to bring all attention to his natural beauty. We are encased in our own bubble of light, neither reaching toward each other, but together all the same.

Until Isabelle coughs dramatically, followed by laughter. "You can thank me later," she winks at Jace, "but your guests are expecting you now." Without further discussion, Jace reaches his arm to me, placing my hand in the crook of his elbow to guide me through the entrance.

"What kind of couple are we tonight?" I ask lowly, so that no one around can hear. He pulls his lower lip between his teeth, hiding a smile.

"I don't think I'll be able to keep my hands off you," he replies smoothly, not looking at me to see the blush coloring the skin of my chest and cheeks.

"Good," I tell him brazenly as the doors open, and we step onto the balcony, Jace waving his greetings to those who follow him, those who adore him. We stop at the ledge, Jace's hand resting on the posts as he addresses the crowd.

"Thank you all for coming!" he bellows, his _boss_ voice traded for a more cheerful one. "I'd like to take this moment to introduce you all to my beautiful wife, Clarissa Herondale." They erupt into applause, and when I look at Jace, he's already staring at me, his smile so real it reaches his eyes, revealing his chipped tooth and small dimple. "Don't stop the party on my account!" he says, finally realizing that everyone is still watching them.

The night passes in a dizzying whirlwind of food, drinks, and dancing. My head is tipped back in laughter, my shoes dangling from my fingertips as Jace holds me upright, smiling in between kissing my neck, my cheek, my forehead. "Let's get some air," he whispers huskily in my ear, a hand on the small of my back to guide me from the room. My toes tingle in anticipation, a drunken smile plastered to my lips.

Until I stop in my tracks, all the drinks making their way up from my stomach and into my throat, hanging there as I stand paralyzed. We've made it to a wall of portraits, each baring the Herondale name. A family tree. A wall of leaders. Jace's is at the end, his gaze hollow, his lips drawn into a slim, stern line. The man beside him makes my blood run cold, my veins freeze over, stabbing my heart with ice. "Clary…Clary! What's wrong?" There's no annoyance, just concern as his hands grip my shoulders. I don't realize I'm crying until one, terrible sob breaks free. "Tell me what's wrong?" I can't help the anger and disgust bubbling inside of me—I hate myself. I hate myself more than I've ever hated anyone. "Clary, please." And Jace, showing concern, to me of all people, someone who certainly does not deserve it, pushes me over the edge.

"Do you really want to know how I got this scar?" I yell, tears streaming down my face uncontrollably as I stand in the middle of this gathering area under tight scrutiny of the pictures on the walls. "I'll tell you," I grit out, pointing toward the face of the man in the largest painting of them all. "I got it the same day I killed that man." I'm emotionless as his head slowly follows the path my finger cuts through the air, finding the gruff expression of his father on the other end, like I'm holding a pistol to his memory. "Stephen Herondale," I mutter, shaking my head with a humorless laugh. The pieces fall together quickly, the exchange of words, about glory, about danger. My father forced me to kill the leader of the Shadowhunters, the only man stronger than Valentine himself.

"But you were only—" Jace begins as he finds his voice, silenced by my hysterical laughter.

"Nine?" I shake my head violently, unable to tell if it's the memories or the champagne causing black to spot the corners of my vision. "It doesn't mean that I didn't take his life." My eyes flick to his, unnerved by the stoic, stone-cold expression, haunted by the similarities, embarrassed that I hadn't known. My knees buckle, and I collapse to the floor. Jace lets me fall, frozen as my sobs are loud enough to draw attention of a collection of people wandering from the gala.

"Get them out of here," Jace growls, pointing at one of his men stationed at the top of the stairway, a wall of hard muscle disguised in a pressed black suit, who, with hard, slitted eyes, guides the guests from the hallway. I shake off the hand he places on my shoulder, right over the offending scar, the scar that signed his father's death certificate, the scar that sealed everyone's fate. He's breathing heavily, slowly, trying to maintain control of his emotions.

My curls have slipped from their sparkling pins, soaked in my tears as I push them from my forehead, only to have them pasted to my skin once more, a shield. I don't look at him. I _can't_. I'd only see those eyes, kind like his father's. "Clary," he speaks gently, as if I'm an injured bird lying broken and dying on the marbled floor. "Clary, shhhhh…you have to calm down." I can hear him glancing around to see if I've attracted more attention.

"I killed him, Jace. I killed your dad!" My voice echoes around us, my words on an endless loop, leaving Jace to dodge them like ricocheting bullets. Truthfully, I want to hurt him. I want him to hate me as much as I hate myself. I want him to feel only disgust when he sees me. I want him to confirm everything I already know. I'm worthless. Nobody could ever love me. I'm a disgrace.

"Clary," he keeps repeating my name like a mantra, softly, without malice or hate, hoping to bust through these iron stakes I've just installed around my heart. It melts the ice in my veins, if only for a moment, as I allow him to grip my elbow, lifting me from the green puddle of my dress, heels slipping against the polished tiles. I can only imagine the way I must look to him, black mascara tracking down my cheeks, leaning into the boy I'd made an orphan. I'm pathetic. I don't deserve to live.

Vaguely, I wonder if he's leading me from the public to kill me, quietly and cleanly, a simple revenge. I stumble again as my shoes slip from beneath me, my body going limp as Jace sweeps me into his arms. My head falls against his chest, the steady beating of his heart the only thing tethering me to this earth. I'm overwhelmed by the warmth of his embrace, by the strong, sandalwood scent of his cologne, by the slight sway of his arms as his footsteps make slow progress through the building.

"I didn't know, Jace. I didn't know," I murmur into the silky texture of his shirt, dirtying it with makeup as he continues to shush me, maneuvering us into an elevator. My sobs have turned to hiccups by the time he's placing me his bed, the familiar blankets wrinkling beneath me. I feel like I'm choking and drowning at the same time. "I didn't know," I managed to croak through my swollen throat, my eyes slipping shut as his hands begin to undo the buttons at the top of my dress, releasing some of the pressure on my chest.

He rises and returns with a t-shirt, his old and frayed Mets t-shirt that I've only seen him wear on Saturdays spent in the apartment. He slides it over my head before shimmying me from the dress, casting it aside on the floor. The bed sinks with his weight as he settles beside me with a heavy sigh, his fingers sifting through my curls.

"My father…he was not a good man, Clary." I hiccup, my eyes still screwed shut.

"I shouldn't be the one who decides who gets to live." His hands don't stop, moving down to stroke my cheek, my jaw, my lips.

"I've tried to kill your father plenty of times." Despite myself, I choke on a laugh, my eyes flying open momentarily to see a small smirk tugging at his lips. "Our fathers are not good people, Clary." I chew my lip, only to have it gently tugged free.

"It's not right that I murdered the leader of the Shadowhunters and get to be the wife of his son." He smooths the curls off my forehead, tucking them behind my ear. There's such tenderness in that gesture, such understanding in his eyes, that I can't keep the tears from slipping through again, this time not for what I'd done, but for what I might lose. I'd never had to face the consequences of Stephen's murder, never having known who he was. Maybe that's why my life has been this hard, because the universe has been out of balance, leaving karma to make up the difference.

"Clary, nine-year-olds don't just murder mafia leaders and get shot in the back. Even _I_ wasn't running missions like that at nine." I wince when he kisses my temple, but he doesn't shy away, instead, he pulls my head into his lap, his silent fingers begging me to look at him. I can't find an ounce of anger in his gaze, my heart shattering. "I want to know the whole story. Please," he adds at my reluctance, my arm reaching across my chest to finger the old scar tissue. It begins with a sigh, my resolve to make him hate me fading with every moment I'm lost in those eyes. _Jace's eyes_. _Golden, compassionate eyes_.

"It was just like any other day," I tell him. "I got up. I went to school." I take a shuddering breath, lifting myself to a sitting position, Jace's arm around my back the only support. "My father shook me from sleep that night, frantic. I'd never questioned his actions. I'd never had a reason to. He'd always been distant to me, cold even, but this was before the abuse began. This was when I saw him, and I thought that was just how fathers were with their daughters." I run my tongue across my chapped lips. "He was tied up, Jace. On the floor of a parking garage, bleeding. He was unarmed, weak." I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to forget the images playing in my mind. "My father gave me a knife, pressed a gun to my back, and told me to kill him. When I couldn't do it, Stephen called my father's bluff, to which my father responded by shooting me in the shoulder. Stephen gave up trying to save himself then. He coached me through it, through his own murder," I shake my head. "He saved my life, Jace, and I thanked him by taking his." Silence falls over us like a heavy blanket, one that's pulled to tightly over my face, suffocating me.

I'm waiting for the gunshot, for the flash of the knife, for those amber eyes to burn like fire as they transport me to hell. Instead, he kisses me, hard, desperately like the blanket was suffocating him, too, like I was his oxygen. His hand grips my hip gently as he pushes me back onto the bed, kissing my cheeks, my nose, my forehead, all while I lay beneath him, paralyzed by confusion. "Jace," I manage as he kisses at my neck. He leans back, his eyes glowing through the night, not like fire but like stars. I can see the universe in those eyes. I can die happily if in those eyes.

"Not once did I look up to my father. Never in my life have I wished to be like him—a ruthless tyrant who tortures his own son if it means the security of his business. I'd never seen him be kind. I'd never seen him care about anyone other than himself. The fact that he _saved_ you, that he gave his life for you…it just means that maybe he wasn't all bad…that maybe there's hope that I won't be as heartless as he was." He kisses me again, and this time, I kiss him back, gripping his shirt, his hair, holding him tightly against me as if letting go might mean he disappears.

When he pulls away finally, it's to wipe the new round of tears rolling in hot paths down my cheeks. "I don't blame you, Clary."

"You're not going to kill me?" I ask in a small voice, unconcerned how girlish and weak it sounds. His pupils swallow his iris whole, the galaxy becoming a black hole as his mouth parts, a visible expression of his heart breaking.

"Killing you would be like killing myself." His words are quiet but speak volumes. Men like Jace, they never learned how to express their feelings. They were never shown love or empathy. The mere fact that he's _trying_ to say it, that he can't live without me, is enough to confirm my own feelings.

When I kiss him, it's full, lingering, hoping he can feel the way my heart races around him, how his mere presence draws a blush to my cheeks, flustering me by jumbling every coherent thought. I want to tell him. But not tonight. Not like this.

I pull the blanket up to her shoulders, settling my head against Jace's chest as he extinguishes the lamp. "Your father cared about you, Jace. He just didn't know how to show it."

Then, the day catches up with me, my joy, my tears—exhaustion settles its claws deeply into my skin, pulling me under before he can even reply.


	24. Chapter 24

_Hello, hello, hello! For those of you new to the story, welcome! For those of you new to me, welcome! For those who've been to this story before, welcome back, and to those who have been with me since the beginning, I am eternally grateful for your support and patience and understanding._

 _I've been struggling with this story and how to tell it. As some of you know, I lost all my outlines, notes and chapters for this story when my laptop broke a few months ago. Rereading it, trying to remember all the places I wanted it to go, there were some things that I wasn't happy with, some things I wanted to add or change._

 _So I've decided to edit and re-upload my chapters. The general storyline has not changed, so feel free to skip these chapters right to the new one, but I've definitely added some additional content, some direction, and some fluff. :)_

 _During my hiatus, I've been writing, working on other projects, and wrestling with a part of my past that I've not yet been strong enough to deal with, but I'm hoping to be back and better than ever, and hold myself accountable for updating!_

 _Thanks for sticking with me through thick and through thin, just like we stick with our faves from the Mortal Instruments. 3_

 _I'm putting the same A/N at the beginning of all updated chapters, so if you're reading this right now, feel free to skip it every time following. I love and appreciate every single one of you. And for whoever needs it, you are not your past. You are not the wrongs done to you. You are worthy and strong and so entirely perfect. Please know that._

 _Love you all._

* * *

 **Dancing With Demons**

 **Chapter 24: Burying Demons**

 **Songs: The Only Boy Awake - Meadows, Early Morning Coffee Cups - Jaimi Faulkner**

* * *

I wasn't not there when Clary woke the next morning. She'd stirred when I'd disentangled myself from her warm embrace, her pillowcase stained with last night's makeup, her eyes red and swollen. I'd gritted my teeth and summoned every ounce of willpower to leave the room, her cheek pillowed softly in her palm, her chest rising and falling in rhythm with mine. Sleep makes her peaceful, innocent, stripping away the hardening effects of this life like layers of paint.

Outside, snow is falling, a sky full of chaos that lands in meticulously thin layers on the wet ground, dusting the world in white, creating a treacherous terrain for my beloved Corvette. And yet I drive her anyway, stoically, mechanically. My phone is poised in my right hand, thumb hovering over the call button. He answers on the first ring. "Hello?"

Dismissing formalities, I strengthen my voice, hoping it doesn't come out as shakily as I feel. "Did you know?" Jonathon doesn't talk, just breathes, slowly, like he's counting them, like he's awaiting an explosion.

"I was there." I've pulled along the curb, my eyes slipping shut as I push the car into park. My tongue runs along my teeth, my lungs clogged and begging for air. I don't know what I exactly wanted from Jonathon. As the leader of the Shadowhunters, I'd sworn to avenge my father's murder, to make an example of the man that killed him. Maybe I wanted Jonathon to give me a reason to be angry, confirmation for who I must be as the leader. Instead, it breaks me, rattles my core. All I can see is a nine-year-old girl with red braids, shaking hands gripped around the hilt of a knife, standing despite the bullet that has torn through her shoulder. All I can see is the fear and turmoil in those eyes. And I know I can't kill her, that I never could.

"Nobody can ever know," I tell him after a moment of tense silence. There's a sigh of relief that only tenses me further. I'd prided myself in my strength, my resolve to do whatever this job entailed. Yet ever since that Demon strode into my life, all I can seem to do is regret this lifestyle, question everything I've ever done and plan to do.

"Thank you." I hang up the phone quickly, tossing it aside in the passenger seat as my eyes drift toward the windshield, to the shrouded cemetery on the other side. The thick covering of trees prevents the snow from reaching the grass, just as dead as the people beneath the surface, but there are no footprints leading to the entrance. Nobody visits this place. This is where society buries those they wish to forget, those unworthy of remembrance and ceremony. This is where I will be lain to rest, where I will spend an eternity, rotting and remembered only as the man who ran drugs and guns through the city, the man who slaughtered his enemies and anyone in his way, the man whose soul has undoubtedly descended into hell, if there is such a place. There's no pomp and circumstance for criminals, nothing to mourn.

I cut the first tracks in the snow, the winter wind biting through my leather jacket as I traverse the deserted space, passing headstone after crumbling headstone. The grass is grown over, thick and dead, breaking where my feet step. It's hard and crunches beneath my boots like bones, but I keep walking, steadily, without hesitation, until I reach the back corner. Two gray, marbled headstones are carved simply with the Herondale crest, birds in flight. There aren't any names or dates, nothing to distinguish this pair as anything other than the common thief, nothing to entice desecration of their memory.

It had been my father's doing, to purchase these headstones, to place them in some nondescript cemetery plot in the back. He'd not wanted to see his wife's grave defiled like so many Shadowhunters'. For all my father's faults and flaws, he'd loved my mother. He loved her as much as he could love something that wasn't his job. He loved her until her last, ragged breath, loved her even when she was more dead than alive.

The cancer had come as quickly as she was gone, spreading outward from her pancreas, into her lungs and her brain and her bones until her body was the tumor. She'd become a skeleton, with a wisp of blonde hair and yellowing eyes. She was gone long before she was dead, and my father still loved her then.

My knees collapse above where she rests, my cheek pressed against the crusted grass. I hadn't understood what was happening then, no older than a toddler. I hadn't understood her tear-filled eyes and long, cold hugs. I hadn't understood why she wore hats in the house or why she couldn't come outside to play. I hadn't spent the time with her I should have. My father was better to her than I was. My father gave her the love she deserved.

I don't cry for them. I've never cried for them: not for a woman I didn't know and a man I didn't love. Instead, I sit there, eyes closed, listening to the wind whip through the holes in the fencing. And for the first time, I reach out and rest my hand on my father's headstone, hoping his soul is at rest, hoping that he's found eternal peace with his wife. "Thank you," I whisper, as desperately and brokenly as Jonathon, so quietly, it's swallowed up by the snow.

X.O.X.O.X

I'm dusting droplets of melted snow from my coat as I shove through my apartment door later that morning. The sun had just broken the horizon, the snow in my headlights turning into shimmering pieces of falling glass in the golden rays. Clary's still asleep, her thigh thrown over the mess of blankets, her hair shielding her from the impending morning. It's chaotic and tragic and beautiful and terrifying all at once, a mess of red on the white sheets, stains of makeup and lipstick on the pillowcase, her body relaxed, my soul begging to be beside hers.

She stirs restlessly when my foot lands on a loose floorboard. With a heavy sigh, she stretches her limbs, slowly, groaning against being woken but not engaging in the hopeless endeavor of returning to slumber. Her hands push her curls from her face, her fists removing the last of the makeup beneath her eyes. "Morning," she mumbles in a deep, ragged voice, wincing at the sound. She stretches again, pressing her palm to her forehead. "What time is it?"

"7:30," I tell her gently, obediently, like my sole purpose in this life is to give her the time. Her eyes roll back into her head, a silent protest to this early awakening. I thrust my hands forward, displaying the two cups of coffee from her favorite shop down the street. It breathes life into her as she lunges forward, grabbing a cup and taking a greedy sip.

"This one's yours," she says with a look of disgust, swapping the paper cups. Shaking my head, I sip my bitter, black coffee, studying her.

Watching a woman with bedhead chug coffee has never been so erotic. My Yankees shirt has lifted and settled at her hips, leaving her crossed, creamy legs on full display. Her head is thrown back, hair spilling down her back like a curling crimson waterfall. Her eyes have slipped closed, her throating making pleasant and sensual noises.

I clear my throat.

"Thank you," she whispers, as if the events of the previous night have returned. She slumps her shoulders, curling in on herself as if becoming a human shield, protecting the heart that she'd left so exposed. I can't stop myself from falling to my knees before her, resting a hand on her cheek, brushing my thumb across her skin. She doesn't pull away, but she doesn't lean in either.

"You're so beautiful." I surprise myself by vocalizing my inner monologue, watching her eyes widen and then shrink, like it's just another line, like I can't possibly be telling the truth. And I can't think of the words to make her believe me, so I just sit there, willing her eyes to meet mine, to see the rubble of the walls she'd smashed through, to peer right through me, to stare into my soul. She pulls her lip between her teeth again, and my thumb moves on its own accord, tugging it free.

And I want to kiss her like I can take her pain away, to hold her until she sees herself like I see her.

But I don't.

Because I can't will my body to move. I can't even form a coherent thought.

And despite everything that I've ever been taught, despite all the warnings and the promises I'd made to myself, I'm falling for this woman. I've already fallen for this woman. I might even _love_ this woman, with a guarded smile and a troubled past, with scars and tattoos and freckles and dimples and green eyes that light up at sunset and complain at sunrise, with hair that obeys know commands and loyalty that knows no bounds, with the weight of the world on her neck and shoulders and an old soul in her chest.

My hand freezes by her mouth.

And my lungs constrict.

I can't even breathe, can't take my eyes from her as she blinks, like she's expecting me to answer some question she hadn't asked. My heart races my mind races my tongue—which one will get the words out, which one will say the right thing. My other hand clenches into a fist, my mind as messy as her hair. "Jace?" she's saying, gently coaxing me to reality.

I shake my head like it'll clear it. It only scrambles my thoughts. Her fingers dust over my cheek, like the softest of feathers, lifting my gaze to meet hers, that lip between her teeth again.

I don't move as she leans in, ever so slowly, closing the distance between us. And suddenly I regain movement. Suddenly, my mouth is against hers, hard but yielding, persistent but patient. And her arms weave around my neck, fingers up into my hair as I pull her to the edge of the bed, gripping her hips, her legs, her cheeks.

Bathed in the pink morning light, I feel my world falling apart, everything I've ever known, ever believed, suddenly forgotten.

I love this woman, I confirm as we finally pull apart, foreheads pressed together, coffee cold and forgotten on the floor.

I love this woman with every fiber of my being, and I will stop at nothing to ensure her safety, even if it means she's better without me.


	25. Chapter 25

_Hello, hello, hello! For those of you new to the story, welcome! For those of you new to me, welcome! For those who've been to this story before, welcome back, and to those who have been with me since the beginning, I am eternally grateful for your support and patience and understanding._

 _I've been struggling with this story and how to tell it. As some of you know, I lost all my outlines, notes and chapters for this story when my laptop broke a few months ago. Rereading it, trying to remember all the places I wanted it to go, there were some things that I wasn't happy with, some things I wanted to add or change._

 _So I've decided to edit and re-upload my chapters. The general storyline has not changed, so feel free to skip these chapters right to the new one, but I've definitely added some additional content, some direction, and some fluff. :)_

 _During my hiatus, I've been writing, working on other projects, and wrestling with a part of my past that I've not yet been strong enough to deal with, but I'm hoping to be back and better than ever, and hold myself accountable for updating!_

 _Thanks for sticking with me through thick and through thin, just like we stick with our faves from the Mortal Instruments. 3_

 _I'm putting the same A/N at the beginning of all updated chapters, so if you're reading this right now, feel free to skip it every time following. I love and appreciate every single one of you. And for whoever needs it, you are not your past. You are not the wrongs done to you. You are worthy and strong and so entirely perfect. Please know that._

 _Love you all._

* * *

 **Dancing With Demons**

 **Chapter 25: Demons Do Dream**

 **Song: Oh Lord – MiC LOWRY**

* * *

"You can't tell me you don't want me," he purrs in her ear, his breath fanning through her curls turning her insides to butterflies. His voice is deep with seduction, his aureate eyes darkened with lust. I can't see past my own desires when my camisole rides up as right hand grips my hip, roughly enough to leave red marks in the shape of his fingertips. His touch is hot against my skin, my breath hitching in my throat as I pear up at him through laden lashes. With my back to the window, the sinking sun sets his eyes on fire. It's startling, almost, how no matter how much darkness and evil surrounds this man, he always shines gold, cutting through even the blackest of shadows. Gooseflesh rises on my skin as he presses me against the glass wall, his other hand finding purchase in my curls. Traffic hums steadily, hundreds of feet below, awaiting my fall, beckoning me closer and closer to its deathly clutches. My life is entirely in his grip, and yet, fear cannot find me, not in this state of animalistic hunger.

This man, this demon, with his feral grin and calloused touch has me entirely enthralled, hanging onto every whisper of his lips, every rise and fall of his chest. "I don't," I finally manage through heavy breaths, but it's already too late. My gaze falls to his mouth as one side pulls up into a sensual smirk, my eyes slipping shut as it lands against my pulse point, my head dropping back against the window on its own accord, granting him more access and my deepest desires.

"Your racing pulse says otherwise." There's a chuckle in his voice, an air of victory in his words as his mouth butterflies kisses along my exposed collarbone. My mind is jumbled by his proximity to curse even my own heart, desire in full control as I splay my hands against his abdomen, hooking an index finger through his trousers to pull him against me. There's no hesitation in his ministrations as he keeps me against the cold glass, his hands moving to grasp behind my thighs and hoist me onto his hips. He's in complete and utter control of me, one wrong move holding the capability of sending us tumbling seventy floors into the street below, but that's not what has me breathless.

He's pressed against me, every carved inch of his body holding me to him as I hook my heels around his back, drawing him even nearer, begging, yearning for his touch. He doesn't stop me when I cup his cheek, pulling his lips from my neck to mine. He is unyielding in his need for control, setting the pace, forcing me to follow. I can't seem to mind, though. I have no tangible thought that could help me take the lead, no consciousness. I'm lost in him, in the way his tongue slowly caresses mine, how his fingers dig into my ass, how the muscles of his shoulders feel beneath my probing fingertips.

I want to say something coy, want to slip from his grasp as soon as things have just begun, but I am frozen, enamored by this driving lust he's instilled in me. I can't protest when he pulls me from the wall, the walking doing wonderful things to the way we're touching. I don't break the kiss when he lays me across his bed, the black comforter soft against my bareback as he ferally tears the camisole from my body. The only expression I get from him is another flash of need when he sees I wear nothing underneath. I don't expect him to call me beautiful. I don't expect him to say anything at all.

And he doesn't

His hands take up my flesh, grasping and kneading as he continues his assault on my mouth. Lights dance behind my eyelids as he uses one hand to clasp my wrists above my head, stretching me out below him, primed for the taking. I don't understand why I'm not apprehensive beneath his touch, why his hovering hands and tough grasp don't have me shying away. I'm leaning into him, hoping for more friction, less distance.

He releases my wrists to remove his own shirt, and I take a moment to revel in the expansive array of scars cutting across the thick, corded muscle. It's gruesomely beautiful, the way his body has healed him from these gunshots, these blade wounds, how he's survived the stuff of nightmares. He doesn't let me appraise him long, hiding my view with kisses once more as his fingers hook into my cotton shorts, yanking them unceremoniously down my legs. His languid, controlled motions have seized, replaced with more primal ones.

I follow suit, my fingers working the buckle of his belt. He keeps touching me, setting my skin ablaze as I undo his pants, hearing them join the growing pile of clothes on the floor. He's nibbling at my breast when he takes me, so swiftly that the air rushes from my lungs in a loud gasp. It's without warning, a bit painful, but it elicits a moan as he begins moving, rhythmically, deeply. It's not as disjointed as the other sexual encounters I've had. He has his arms wrapped around me, holding me closely as I meet his thrusts, desperately almost.

I can't help but chant his name, a mantra as I slip one hand between us to meet my own needs. This arouses him further, his thrusts faster, fuller. He flips me onto my stomach, pulling me to my knees as he grips my breasts, wrenching a scream from my lungs as I draw faster circles against myself, clinging to the pressure building low in my stomach. There aren't any words, just low grunts, long moans, and heavy, quick pants, filling the room. "I'm going to….I'm going to…" I try to get out in a panicked voice, worried it might break this spell we are under.

It doesn't.

Jace brushes my hand aside, replacing it with his own as he circles me roughly, his arm wrapped around my hips to pull me roughly against him.

And I fall off the cliff, weightless as I float down from my high, oblivious to Jace's finishing strokes. It's what happens when he explodes that pulls me from my bliss. I don't expect him to moan my name as he comes. I don't expect him to even know what it is.

But he does.

I wake up, chest heaving, wrapped in a cocoon of blankets with the offending man slumbering softly beside him, his hand curled in a fist against his chest like he's ready to fight even in the depths of sleep. I can't breathe. I get up, wandering to the bathroom the splash water on my face.

I'd never had a dream like that before, not one where I'd felt such intense pleasure. I brace my hands against the sink, willing my racing pulse to return to normal before the thunderous sound awakens the entire city.

I cast a glance at him, the moon illuminating his silhouette against the mattress. He's heartbreakingly beautiful, something I'd often refused to acknowledge, worried he'd pit that attraction against me, exploit the first authentic feelings curling in my stomach.

And yet, even when I'd admitted to murdering his father, even when I'd given him nothing but turmoil and pain, he'd not once used that as a weapon, not once reached into the arsenal of my past to destroy me.

I silently return to his side, curling up in the heat that radiates from him like he's the sun itself. He shifts, his fist uncurling and reaching out to pull me closer. And I let him. And I like it. And there's no going back.


	26. Chapter 26

_Hello, hello, hello! For those of you new to the story, welcome! For those of you new to me, welcome! For those who've been to this story before, welcome back, and to those who have been with me since the beginning, I am eternally grateful for your support and patience and understanding._

 _I've been struggling with this story and how to tell it. As some of you know, I lost all my outlines, notes and chapters for this story when my laptop broke a few months ago. Rereading it, trying to remember all the places I wanted it to go, there were some things that I wasn't happy with, some things I wanted to add or change._

 _So I've decided to edit and re-upload my chapters. The general storyline has not changed, so feel free to skip these chapters right to the new one, but I've definitely added some additional content, some direction, and some fluff. :)_

 _During my hiatus, I've been writing, working on other projects, and wrestling with a part of my past that I've not yet been strong enough to deal with, but I'm hoping to be back and better than ever, and hold myself accountable for updating!_

 _Thanks for sticking with me through thick and through thin, just like we stick with our faves from the Mortal Instruments. 3_

 _I'm putting the same A/N at the beginning of all updated chapters, so if you're reading this right now, feel free to skip it every time following. I love and appreciate every single one of you. And for whoever needs it, you are not your past. You are not the wrongs done to you. You are worthy and strong and so entirely perfect. Please know that._

 _Love you all._

* * *

 **Dancing With Demons**

 **Chapter 26: Orchestrating a War**

 **Songs: Little Lion Man – Mumford & Sons, Into the Storm: BANNERS**

* * *

I've been avoiding Clary. These feelings—any feeling really—they're all new to me, and it's terrifying. I can't decide if I want to hole up in my office for the next century or shout them from the rooftops. Coupling these desires with the fact that either one could cost Clary her life, I'm at an impasse, forcing myself to work day and night until I can reach a compromise. I still call her office phone, watching her face light up in the reflection on the window. I kiss her good morning, goodbye, and goodnight, leave her favorite coffee on her desk. I know it's not enough, but it's the best I can do right now.

It's well past midnight now, as I shuffle a few things around on my desk, waiting for Max to return with a report on the latest shipments, giving commands to secure the new warehouse before they arrive. I've never been able to see the stars from my office, but not even the moon casts a glow on this desolate night. My hand hovers over my cell phone, but I don't pick it up. Instead, I blink it at, willing the screen to light up with a message from her, even just a request to pick up milk at the store, any mundane thing to remind me that I'm here, that I'm alive and this is all worth something.

A sound rings out, but it is not my phone. It's Alec, bursting through my office door without knocking. He doesn't flinch under my glare as he tosses a manila envelope onto the desk in front of me. He's never been afraid of me. "We have a lead on that girl." An image of her body in my lobby flashes before me as I remove the papers, flicking it aside to be greeted by the face of a smiling, young girl, an eighth-grade portrait. "Her name was Maureen Brown." _Was_. The word stings worse than any bullet. An innocent, a _child_ , killed because of me, because of my power and my enemies. I thumb through the rest of the paperwork mechanically, without emotion, because God forbid I be weak, even before my oldest friend, my brother.

I pause at the end, a photograph of her family. Dark tattoos brand their wrists. "They have ties to the Vampires." I dust my thumb over the familiar design, swirling waves of blood interlaced with razor-sharp fangs.

Alec licks his lips, drawing in a shaky breath. He knows exactly what I am thinking, except he is brave enough to voice it. "Whoever killed that girl wasn't sending us a message. They were starting a war." My fingertips have turned white as I clutch the paper, a sour taste in my mouth. The Vampires would not kill one of their own like this, and they're in the process of aligning with the Faeries. I'd just exposed and eliminated a spy in the ranks of the Werewolves. This can only be the work of one man, one ruthless leader who will stop at nothing to maintain his power, even if it means tossing his daughter into the crossfire. "Valentine."

X.O.X.O.X

I spent all night trying to decipher Valentine's plan. He's not strong enough to destroy the Shadowhunters alone, and with the Faeries and Vampires working together, there's no doubt they can defeat me. But why have me wed his daughter? Why put forth a premise of peace only to destroy it later? There must be something here that I'm missing. Something bigger, something that could blow this world to pieces.

I slam my fist into the wood, scattering papers and sending pens to the floor, a small gasp pulling my focus from the night's events. She stands in the doorway, a planner clutched to her chest like shield, hiding behind thick waves of red hair. Her right-hand shakes around a mug of coffee. I realize what I must look like to her, hands braced against the desk, all rippling muscles and thick scars—dangerous, deadly. I can't help the intensity of my gaze as I drink her in, my heartbeat drowning out everything but her. Her mouth parts, drawing my attention to the soft curve of her lip, the subtle pinkness of her cheeks, the glazed look in her eye.

"Clary," I manage, my voice strained. My fingers flex against the surface of the desk. I'm physically restraining myself. She bites her lip, taking slow, tentative steps toward me, gingerly setting the cup on my desk before meeting my eyes. She's so beautiful, so breathtakingly beautiful that it aches just to look at her, to know that Valentine had abused her, stolen her innocence. She should loathe all men, especially those in positions of power. She should seek justice and vengeance. Instead, her eyes are clear, void of any malice or hate. And I love her for it. I love her.

I close the gap between us. The sound of her planner hitting the floor falls on deaf ears as her lips settle against mine, warm, electric. I lift her onto the surface of my desk, shoving the coffee to the floor where it leaves a brown stain against the rug. I pay no mind as her hands weave into my hair, holding my face steadily against hers as I splay my fingers against the skin of her thighs. Her skirt has ridden up to her hips, and I inch it up further before stopping. "Clary," I repeat, a warning. She ignores me, her fingers slipping from my hair to the buttons of my shirt, pushing it from my shoulders and onto the ground.

I give up trying to hold back, laying her down. Her kisses are deep, passionate, not soft and sweet like those before. My thumb runs along her ribs, and she shivers, revealing a timid smile. There's a storm in her eyes now. One of desire and lust and something more. "I love you," she whispers, like I might not hear it, like I might leap from the room the moment she utters those words. I don't, though. I can't. I'm paralyzed in her gaze, smoothing curls from her face as I muster every ounce of courage that I have left. My head screams to hold it in. My heart begs me to let it out. And for once, I let my heart guide me, unafraid.

"I love you, too." She smiles then, fully, before gripping the waist of my pants and pulling, sending me toppling onto her. The sun is just creeping over the horizon as her fingertips leave trails of fire over my cheeks, down my biceps, across my chest. I kiss her nose, her cheeks, her forehead—every square inch of her face until she's blushing and breathless.

All too soon, the office buzz begins to pick up with Isabelle complaining loudly about Clary's absence. I push off her, retrieving my shirt, winking cheekily at her as she smooths down her skirt. I easily dodge her hand as she swats at me, and she bites her swollen lips. There's no doubt that if Clary's the sinking ship in Valentine's plan, I'm going down with her.


	27. Chapter 27

_Hello, hello, hello! For those of you new to the story, welcome! For those of you new to me, welcome! For those who've been to this story before, welcome back, and to those who have been with me since the beginning, I am eternally grateful for your support and patience and understanding._

 _I've been struggling with this story and how to tell it. As some of you know, I lost all my outlines, notes and chapters for this story when my laptop broke a few months ago. Rereading it, trying to remember all the places I wanted it to go, there were some things that I wasn't happy with, some things I wanted to add or change._

 _So I've decided to edit and re-upload my chapters. The general storyline has not changed, so feel free to skip these chapters right to the new one, but I've definitely added some additional content, some direction, and some fluff. :)_

 _During my hiatus, I've been writing, working on other projects, and wrestling with a part of my past that I've not yet been strong enough to deal with, but I'm hoping to be back and better than ever, and hold myself accountable for updating!_

 _Thanks for sticking with me through thick and through thin, just like we stick with our faves from the Mortal Instruments. 3_

 _I'm putting the same A/N at the beginning of all updated chapters, so if you're reading this right now, feel free to skip it every time following. I love and appreciate every single one of you. And for whoever needs it, you are not your past. You are not the wrongs done to you. You are worthy and strong and so entirely perfect. Please know that._

 _Love you all._

* * *

 **Dancing With Demons**

 **Chapter 27: Enemies and Allies**

 **Song: Fucked Up Kids - Hit the Lights**

* * *

I observe the women emotionlessly, wondering why this is the company I've chosen to keep. Then, I remember that Alec had sent me here, that this isn't a social call. Jordan Kyle sits beside me, a dopey grin adorning his face as the red lights flash over it. A girl grinds her hips over his in the dark, her arms looped around his neck, mouth centimeters apart. If I hadn't been here to negotiate peace, I probably would have lit the place on fire.

Yet, here I am, waiting an hour for a refill in the dirtiest strip club in the entire city, watching woman crescent moon tramp stamps swing around greasy poles.

I'll admit it. I'd rather be home with Clary watching some cheesy romantic comedy.

And again, here I am.

I lift my hand and shake my head as one of the dancers approaches me, leaning down to push her breasts into my face. She gives me a dirty look, and someone finally fills my glass. I eye it a bit skeptically letting it rest on the table instead of drinking it.

The girl has left Jordan's lap, throwing him a wink before returning to the stage. He slaps her ass. "That's my girlfriend," he tells me, a cigar dangling loosely from his lips as he searches for his lighter. I flick mine, bringing the flame to the tip. "Maia," he continues, unperturbed by my utter disinterest. He leans casually against the cracked leather booth, a thick cloud of gray smoke hovering around his head.

"Where's Lucian?" I ask abruptly, cutting through his incessant ramblings of the things Maia desires in the bedroom. "I ask for a meeting, and he sends a lacky," I shake my head in annoyance, flattening my palms against the table, readying to leave. He gently rests a gun on his side of the table, the metal flashing in the red lights.

"Sit down." I laugh in his face, my first real emotion of the night.

"Is that meant to scare me?" I laugh again. He's unsettled.

"You killed one of our men," he manages, though his eyes show he's the one that's afraid. Seated across from a maniac like me, he's smart to be. "You have become an enemy of the Wolves."

"The Werewolves have no quarrel with me, boy." I spit the last word, the way my father used to do to me when I'd made a mistake. "In fact, the should be thanking me…falling at my feet."

The gun has made its way into his hand. He feels I'm devolving, ready to snap at any second.

Eh, he's probably right.

"Sebastian was a—"

"Demon? Spy? Pedophile? Fill in the blank. Really, any will do."

His brows pull together. He cocks the gun. "—my friend!"

I turn my head to the side, pretending to pout. "Was he? Was he really?" I raise one hand in surrender, opening my coat and throwing a few photographs on the ground.

Sebastian with Valentine.

Sebastian with Jonathan.

Sebastian with underage women.

"Hey, maybe I was wrong. Maybe he was a Werewolf spy infiltrating the Demons." I pause momentarily. "But by the look on your face, my record is still perfect."

The gun is still aimed at my face, though in considerably shakier hands. That is, until a stronger, steadier pair extracts the weapon from Jordan. I follow them up arms, inked and scared with years of leadership, to find the strangely kind eyes of their leader, Lucian Graymark. "Thank you, Jordan. That will be all."

Lucian seats himself where Jordan had been, shuffling through the photographs, scanning each one slowly. "I always knew he was a creep," Luke finally admits, shoving the papers back toward me. He's old for a boss, only two years younger than Valentine, though the years have been crueler to him. His brown hair has turned gray at the roots, crow's-feet and laugh-lines visible on his eyes and cheeks. Maybe the years have been kinder to him, given him reason to smile, to laugh.

I swallow the foreign jealously growing in my stomach.

"You realize this means war, right? That the Wolves and the Demons must fight."

"I'm counting on it," I reply quickly, a smirk growing on my face. Luke holds his chin in his fingers, skeptical.

"And why, pray tell me, should I trust you? Especially when the Wolves' march into battle seems to meet your needs?"

"An enemy to the Demons is an ally to the Shadowhunters. Valentine's ruthlessness knows no bounds, even in this industry. It's time for a new era."

Lucian raises his brows, reaching across the table and finishing my untouched alcohol. He grimaces as he swallows. "Count us in."

X.O.X.O.X

"What is your fucking fetish with cemeteries, Herondale?" Jonathan asks, kicking his way through the snow toward the back of the fenced area.

"Neutral ground, blah blah," I wave dismissively, shoving the paperwork into his hands. "The plan has been set into motion." He shoots me a glare, smoothing the wrinkled documents and squinting through the darkness.

"I can't read this, Jace."

"Wait, I thought you graduated Kindergarten last year." Jonathan punches him in the shoulder, and I just laugh, unafraid of one of the most powerful men in the city. Below me, of course. "The Werewolves are in. I have guys finding evidence that the Demons planted the Vampire body in my lobby, aligning us with the Vampires and their Fairy allies."

Jonathan folds the papers, shoving them into his coat to be read and subsequently burned. "I'll call you if I find anything incriminating," he tells me as he turns to retrace his footsteps through the snowdrifts. I wait, somehow knowing his silhouette will turn toward me. "And Jace? Valentine will utilize, Clary. And if he promises to protect her loved ones, she _will_ cooperate."

"Nothing will happen to her. I promise." He can't see my face, but he doesn't have to. This is the strongest promise I've ever made. No hesitation. No deceit. His shadow nods, and I know, in that moment, I've shown my hand. He knows my emotions. He knows the explosion in my chest. "Hold her close, Jace. War is upon us."

X.O.X.O.X

I'd lain down a set of rules following my marriage to Clary, meant to strengthen appearances and minimize emotions. I'd wanted to appear enough of a couple that she'd be respected, yet not enough that enemies might utilize her as a weapon. I'd wanted to keep my distance, to keep my emotions caged in the fortress of my ribs because from the moment I'd seen her, I knew she'd be the wrecking ball of my demise.

And I hadn't been ready to admit it at the time, but I was okay with that. Without the exchange of even one word, I'd excepted that she'd orchestrate my downfall. And I surrendered, wholeheartedly, without thought, without care.

And each night as I slide into bed beside her and her cold toes find their way between my calves, I'm reminded why.

I'm reminded of the way Valentine gripped her elbow, dragging her through the courthouse to sign her away, like she was a possession to be traded, a pawn. That upbringing still rears its ugly head sometimes, like at any moment she feels I might snap, might hit her, might gun her down, like she's worthless, like no one would care if she disappeared.

I'm reminded of the first night she'd invited me to share the bed. Of the quiet hesitancy of her voice, of the way she curled around herself. I could see it in her eyes, that she was nervous I'd say no, that she believed herself to be far too damaged to be loved, far too dangerous to be loved. And each night I'm face with the same decision, to lay down in my own grave or to walk away. And night after night I make the same choice, pulling the blankets over both of our bodies as she faces me in the darkness.

I'm reminded of the woman, broken in my arms, admitting to the murder of my father. Of the woman so ready to let me slit her throat, so ready to face the repercussions of someone else's sins.

I'm reminded of her confidence before the bag, landing each punch with expert force, motivated by a passion that sets fire to my insides, so unlike the cold focus I fight with.

I'm reminded of her voice in my office, soft but sure, as she told me her feelings, of the soft intake of breath following, of the way she held it, awaiting my response.

And I'm reminded that I'd broken the rules I'd set for myself, long before meeting this woman. Rules that my father instilled in me, passed on from his father. Rules of success.

But I was right earlier.

It's a new era.

With new leaders and new rules.

And I'll be damned if Clary's happiness can't be one of them.

So, when I slip between the sheets and her body rolls toward mine, I push the curls from her face and press my cold, blue lips against hers.

When I pull away, I run my thumb across her cheek as she bites back against her smile. "I love you," I tell her, brazenly, loudly, like I can't be bothered with who might find out. Her smile escapes then, lighting up the night as I pull her tight against me, burying my face in her strawberry-scented curls.

She falls asleep with her smile pressed against my bare chest, and I lay there, wide awake. Not wanting to miss a moment.


	28. Chapter 28

_Hello, hello, hello! For those of you new to the story, welcome! For those of you new to me, welcome! For those who've been to this story before, welcome back, and to those who have been with me since the beginning, I am eternally grateful for your support and patience and understanding._

 _I've been struggling with this story and how to tell it. As some of you know, I lost all my outlines, notes and chapters for this story when my laptop broke a few months ago. Rereading it, trying to remember all the places I wanted it to go, there were some things that I wasn't happy with, some things I wanted to add or change._

 _So I've decided to edit and re-upload my chapters. The general storyline has not changed, so feel free to skip these chapters right to the new one, but I've definitely added some additional content, some direction, and some fluff. :)_

 _During my hiatus, I've been writing, working on other projects, and wrestling with a part of my past that I've not yet been strong enough to deal with, but I'm hoping to be back and better than ever, and hold myself accountable for updating!_

 _Thanks for sticking with me through thick and through thin, just like we stick with our faves from the Mortal Instruments. 3_

 _I'm putting the same A/N at the beginning of all updated chapters, so if you're reading this right now, feel free to skip it every time following. I love and appreciate every single one of you. And for whoever needs it, you are not your past. You are not the wrongs done to you. You are worthy and strong and so entirely perfect. Please know that._

 _Love you all._

* * *

 _This is the start of the new content that continues the story! Yay!_

* * *

 **Dancing With Demons**

 **Chapter 28: Demon Hero**

 **Song: Wicked Game – Theory of a Deadman**

* * *

For the first time in my entire life, I slept past sunrise, a bundle of curls murmuring softly in her sleep as I lift myself from the warm sheets. Even the steaming shower is cold compared to her embrace, an emptiness taking root in my heart, cementing itself there as I stick my keys into the ignition and route myself to work.

Leaving her there, alone, asleep, defenseless—it stirs something deep within me, a feral feeling of protectiveness. It flares and spreads heat through my veins, my heart beating heavier, my brain calculating every possible scenario that might occur in my absence.

I'm not familiar with this feeling of anxiety. I've been trained to remain emotionless, honed to keep calm in the face of my darkest enemies. And yet, a small redhead had thrown those years of preparing out the window, waltzing into my life and burning me down to my base, revealing my truest self.

"Isabelle," I greet my sister, who's seated in my waiting room.

"You have a visitor," she tells me, taking the place of my slumbering secretary for the time being. "Michael Wayland." The name brightens my mood, one I hadn't heard in a long time.

"Thanks, Iz." She nods, exiting to return to her own duties as I enter my office.

"Look at you," Michael says in leu of greeting. The last time I saw Michael was the day before I was named the official leader of the Shadowhunters, the day my grandfather was lain to rest. "You've become a man."

He wraps his arms around me in a tight embrace. Michael retired after my grandfather's death, settling into a life just outside of the city, maintaining contact with the older generation of the Shadowhunters, those who've served longer than I've been alive. "You always were a little bit naïve," he adds, pulling back as I fail to mask my confusion.

I'd always known that the ties and alliances between the gangs were a clusterfuck of bastardized children and forbidden romances, but I'd never expected Michael Wayland to press a gun to my temple.

If Robert Lightwood had been my father's right hand, Michael Wayland was the left. He'd given me my first seraph blade, taught me how to utilize the traditional weapon when my enemies were armed with guns. He taught me the pride in using one's body, one's own strength, to overcome even the toughest adversaries. "What are you doing, Wayland," I growl. "Once a Shadowhunter, always a Shadowhunter."

"Look out at this city, boy," he growls, the cold metal digging deeper into my forehead as he grips the back of my chair. He spins my office chair so that I face picture window, looking at the city, _my_ city from seventy floors up. Rain drizzles against the glass pane. Below, people open umbrellas, rushing from point A to point B, dragging children and pets along as they lag back to splash in the puddles. "War is upon us. New York is burning to the ground, and only Demons can survive the blaze."

"How do you plan to start a fire in this fucking rain?" I quip because I'm an indignant asshole, because even in the face of certain death, I refuse to cower. He can hear the gnashing of teeth as he sets his jaw. The gun cocks. I don't flinch.

"I'll tell that pretty little wife of yours you said _Hi_.'"

I wince then, not because his fingers had moved toward the trigger, but because my life has taken a shape in my mind. It's in the form of her lips, soft and swollen from late night kisses, in her hair, swept backward by the wind from the opened window of my Corvette, in her smile, the one that reveals her teeth and reaches her eyes. It's in her hands, the way they trace my scars, unbothered by who I am, by what I've done. It's in the way she sleeps soundly, trusting me to keep the demons at bay.

For the first time in my life, when faced with my own mortality, I am afraid.

 _I love you_.

I will it from my mind to hers, praying to whatever gods live above that she might hear it, that she might lift her face and feel a warm breeze against her cheeks, that a sliver of sun might bust through the quilted clouds and land at her feet, that she might blink and a rainbow will appear.

"It's been a good run, Herond—" His words are cut off. Not by any sound in particular, just abruptly dissipating into silence.

And then I hear it, the familiar gurgle of death, the last attempt for breath that's drowned by blood rushing into the lungs. The knife makes a squishing sound as it is removed from his back, his corpse slowly slumping forward as gravity takes its toll.

I see her behind him.

My hero.

My angel.

The knife clatters to the ground, shattering the chaotic silence as Clary backs away from the man, eyes wide, horrified at the scene before her. Her hands are shaking, mouth opened in a silent scream. There's crimson splattered across her cheeks, her hair a wild tangle of curls as bright as the blood pooling at her feet.

"Clary," I murmur, my voice oddly calm despite my recent brush with death. I toe the body with my boot as I pass by, just to check, before taking her up in my arms. Her hand has come up to cover the shock on her face, her torso shaking uncontrollably as blood pools near our feet. She doesn't look at me, doesn't speak. Instead, she extracts herself from my embrace and steals from the room, disappearing before my mind has even caught up.


	29. Chapter 29

_Hello! Update! I don't have much to say except please enjoy!_

* * *

 **Dancing With Demons**

 **Chapter 29: Love and War**

 **Song: River – Bishop Briggs**

* * *

It doesn't take him long to find me after he returns from the office. I notice him immediately, hovering in the doorway, arms folded over his chest, expression unreadable. A standing corpse. He knows I'm ignoring him. I can see it in the slight furrow of his brow, feel his displeasure from across the room, but I keep my rhythm.

Throw from the core.

Step into it.

Steady eyes.

Steady heart.

The words are his, fueling me as the bag swings out farther with each hit. I want to cry. I want to scream. I want to whirl on him and land these punches into his gut. I know enough not to allow my emotions to guide me as I continue training, each hit stronger than the last, splitting my knuckles until blood drips down my arms. I throw my rage into my fists and into the bag until I have to catch it, chest heaving, still refusing to look toward him.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I growl finally, my breaths settling, soft and even. I shove the bag at him when he rounds on me, not as a defensive shield but rather as an expression of annoyance, of anger. He stops it with one, opened palm, his eyebrows raising slightly before his gaze turns to slits. His fist connects with the bag, the sound resonating through my bones.

I know he'd never lay his hands on me, but it's intimidating, a reminder. He's the powerful, deadly leader of the Shadowhunters, and I'd be wise not to cross him. The funny thing is, when you are raised as nothing, as no one, as worthless, you tend to be reckless when it comes to your life.

Jace's eyes are on fire in the dying sunlight, his muscles rippling beneath the fabric of his button-down shirt. His mouth is a hard, set line, like there are so many things he wants to spit at me but he's physically restraining himself. He doesn't speak for a moment, his hand resting delicately against the now steadied bag. And when his mouth does form the words, they're not about war.

"Why do you fight, Clary?" he asks, his voice quiet, but strong. A leader's voice. I just blink at him blankly, shielding the reaction my brain has toward my true motives. "Is it anger?" he asks finally, his fist colliding with the bag, punctuating each new question. "Frustration? Vengeance?" He stops the swinging bag as quickly as he'd begun hitting it, quirking a curious eyebrow in my direction. "Boredom?"

I haven't wiped the blood from my hands, and it begins to drip on the floor, the noise crashing in my ears as loud as a thunderstorm. "I fight because I want to," I grit out finally, angered that I feel the need to answer his questions when he refuses to acknowledge mine. Subordinate as always, I guess.

He tsks, shaking his head in disapproval. "Wanting is not the reason we do things. The reasons cause the wanting." He pushes the bag toward me again, and I fall into the stance, leaving bloodied prints behind with each swing. "Tell me again. Why do you fight?"

I wait for a few hits before chancing a glance at him. His eyes have opened, his face soft but guarded, like he thinks he might be the reason I'd like to throw a punch, like he's the one I need protection from. While I'm looking at him, he catches my throw, running his thumb over my split knuckles, as the other hand undoes the buttons of his shirt. The blue material soaks red as he uses it to bandage my wounds, tender hands working delicately over mine.

"I fight…" I begin, watching as his motions stall momentarily, to look up at me. "I fight because I'm scared." I pull my arm free when he finishes, crossing them over my chest to protect the heart that I'd just opened to him. For a moment, I can read the agony in his eyes, as plain as the daylight filtering through the windows. In a flash of fire, it disappears, his gaze dropping to the corner of the room before returning to me. It had been only a millisecond, but I'd seen it, how much this man can care, about others, about what they think of him. Behind every shield, every barrier, is just a boy yearning for acceptance, the same as the rest of the world. And I find that I want to give it to him. Despite his faults and his flaws, despite his reputation and his brash responses, this man is something other than I've ever experienced. There is a kindness to him, a compassion that all the men before him had lacked. There's a sort of safety in baring myself to him, in sharing with him the burdens of my past. "I fear that this," I gesture around me, "is all just temporary and that I'll fall right back into the Demons' clutches, into Sebastian's clutches."

"You don't have to worry about Sebastian anymore," Jace says firmly, a glare of a memory in his eyes. I can't help the glance at the tally marks on his ribs, my fingers reaching out to the one that had been fresh the night he'd given me my tattoo. He shudders beneath my touch, his hand covering mine over his heart, beating steady and strong. "As long as my heart is beating, you won't have to worry about anyone."

I know he means it, and I want to believe it, but I find myself shaking my head. "You're going to war with my father, Jace. My origins will come to light, and not only will I be an enemy of the Demons, but also of you."

"I'll kill anyone that tries to touch you. Even my own men." I laugh once, a sharp exhale of breath through my nose, at his stubbornness.

"Valentine's been planning this for God knows how long, Jace. I am somehow part of that plan. Anyone with two eyes can see that." He grips my hand now, tightly, like he can't stand to let me go. "I won't be your downfall."

"Don't even say it, Clary. That's an order." His boss voice lacks its usual power, his walls all crumbled, his face raw, vulnerable.

"Maybe it's safer if I return to the Demons." His eyes have hardened to amber gemstones, sharp and unmovable.

"Valentine will kill you."

"You can't strategize with your emotions, Jace." He whirls abruptly and drives his fist into the wall, despite the bag hanging to his left.

"Like hell I can't. I am the _boss_ , Clary. I am the boss, and I'm not letting you leave the Shadowhunters."

"You can't stop me," I challenge. God, I want him to make me stay, but I know that when I'm here, I'm more dangerous than Valentine.

"Try me." He blocks my path as I attempt to move around him, his grip hard on my shoulders, holding me in place. "I won't let you march to your death, Clary. Even if I lose everything, it will be worth it to know that you're alive."

"Jace…I…I," I'm still stuttering when his arms envelop me. His embrace is warm, strong, protective, a feeling I'm not accustomed to. He just holds me, the sunlight heating my back as I listen to the noises of life in his chest. My eyes fall closed as I let him support me, that little training room privy to so many emotions.

"I am so in love with you, Clary," he tells me as his fingers move through my hair. And I can't help the tears as they fall. Not because I don't feel the same emotions, exploding in my chest like an atomic bomb, but because I know the gravity of those words.

Loving me is a death sentence.


	30. Chapter 30

_Lots of love to you all_

* * *

 **Dancing With Demons**

 **Chapter 30:** **Ecstasy**

 **Song: Sanctuary - Welshly Arms**

* * *

I'd been spending a lot of time in meetings.

With Alec, following up with the progress on Maureen Brown, the Vampire killed in my lobby, his eyes growing more hollow each time he looks at the pictures of her bloodied and brutalized body.

With Simon, digging through the lives of every member of the Shadowhunters, searching for more weaknesses, more disloyalties, the dark circles visible beneath his eyes, even through the thick frames of his glasses.

With Izzy, stalking Demon shipments, following them down desolate alleyways, living in the shadows when she was born for the spotlight.

With my allies—Luke, Jordan, Magnus—cycling through my building with updates, intel, and ideas, secretly aligning themselves with a group Valentine had pushed them to condemn.

Everyone was making sacrifices, giving pieces of themselves to ensure the survival of our people, of our livelihood.

Like the Herondales had built something worth protecting.

Like we weren't just a bunch of gunrunning, drug-dealing sinners perpetuating humanity's descent into eternal hell.

Too many office days had been turned into work nights, loosening my tie in the dull lamplight of my desk, pouring over files and receipts and photographs.

And when I'd assumed my role as ringmaster, it had not been blindly. Our acts were far beyond devilish, surpassing criminal and edging into the heinous territory. I was bred to be a killer, the Devil's own sacrificial lamb, and I was in too deep to bail out now. I'd been damned since the day I was born, a killer since my father dug his gunpowder fingers into my brain.

I wasn't giving up time or sleep. I'd given my entire life to this gang. Only to have it thrown in my face by my father's best friend, the very man who's worked tirelessly to seat the Shadowhunters in the throne of the kingdom of Hell.

His body had been deposited unceremoniously into the Hudson River, weighted and rooted to the grimy bottom, nestled in the sludge and slime for eternity.

And yet I was unsettled.

I'd been trained to never show fear. Even in the face of death, I was to ooze confidence, like with a pistol against my temple, I still had control.

Now, I found myself suppressing flinches at every unexpected noise, doublechecking faces, using glass and mirrors to glance behind myself.

None of this made any fucking sense.

We'd found the mole. We'd secured our stocks.

I should feel accomplished, safe…powerful.

But mostly, I felt confused. Why would Michael Wayland take decades of sweat and blood and shred it to pieces? Who could convince a warrior to slaughter his own army.

I knew the answer. Deep in my bones I knew it was Valentine's hand that had orchestrated the show, pulled the strings leading to Wayland's death. That somehow the Demons were able to sink their talons into his insecurities and corrupt him.

But _why_? Why go to all this trouble just to start a war?

Why kill Maureen Brown?

Why infiltrate the Werewolves?

I push my hands into my hair, shoving the timeline I'd constructed to the floor. Nothing lined up. Not even Jonathan could offer any insight.

The plot must stretch beyond destruction of the Shadowhunters.

There's no other explanation.

Simon's lengthy investigation into anyone with the slightest affiliation to the gang had been expensive, time-consuming, and completely fruitless. Loyalty to the gang ran deeply in the veins of the Shadowhunters. It proved to be an integral part of everyone's being, as much a family as blood relation.

That's why Michael Wayland was an enigma, an unsolvable and terrifying mystery.

I shoved my hands through my tousled hair again, like pulling it might give me the answers I so desperately seek.

"Jace," a soft voice beckoned from a doorway, like a siren from the abyss.

She was bathed in shadows, her skin painted silver in the moonlight, eyes like Eden itself.

She still wore her skirt and blouse, but her feet were bare, her eyeline smudged at the edges, like she'd fallen asleep face-first into her pillow. She crossed the threshold to my study slowly, like she might be cast out at any moment.

She drifted as silently as she did on that first night, wandering the dim halls, wrapped securely in a quilt. Though this time, it was not listlessness that drove the motion. Her eyes were filled with worry, like any quick movement might spook me.

She wasn't not entirely wrong.

"You need some rest." She'd reached my desk now, pressing a cold hand to my cheek. I leaned into the touch, letting my eyes fall shut for the first time in days. "Come to bed."

It wasn't a suggestion, the way she said it. She was looking at the papers scattered on the floor, the stacked mugs of coffee gone cold, the unsmoked cigars burning like embers in the ashtray.

She pulled her lip between her teeth, waiting for me to rebuke her, to tell her to get out, but her bravery beat her insecurities as she reached for my hand.

I let her lift me to my feet, clasping her arms around my bicep as we traverse the seemingly unfamiliar halls of my penthouse. I hadn't seen it in weeks, cutting the same path from my office to my study every night, substituting food and sleep with caffeine.

I didn't have it in me to protest as she shut the door behind us, pushing me gently onto the bed with her fingertips, lifting the tie over my head and casting it aside.

Her fingers chilled my warm skin as she slowly undid the buttons on my shirt.

There wasn't anything sexual about it, as she pushed it from my shoulders and dropped it to the floor, but the concentration in her eyes ignited a fire inside my chest.

I caught her hand again as her fingers trailed along the lines of my tattoos, down past the red droplets, into the tally marks. "I love you," I told her, pulling her to stand between my legs. A small smile graced her lips, and I released her hand, allowing it to continue its path across my chest and over my shoulder.

Her touch was soft, releasing some of the tension in my muscles, lifting the pressure from y chest. My eyes closed again, sleep immanent.

The next time I looked up at her, the concerned concentration was gone. Instead, her eyes burned with desire.

Her curls had escaped their tight bun, framing her face.

A wildfire.

Her breath caught in her throat as I pulled her down into my lap, rolling to press her into the mattress.

She didn't shrink away when I leaned in to kiss her. She deepened it, her hand cupping the back of my neck, leveraging my hair to pull herself closer, fitting her body against mine.

And suddenly, I was wide awake.

"Clary, love," I groaned, turning my head so that her kiss landed on the corner of my mouth.

She gripped my shoulders, using her thighs to flip us over, pinning me to the bed. "I know you want me," she whispered, grinding herself against me. My eyes rolled back, and she bit her lip. "I love you, Jace." Her fingers grazed my scars—bullet wounds, knife slices, consequences of combat. "All of you."

It was like she could read my mind— _I'm not good enough for you, you deserve better_ —ran through my head like a mantra until that moment, when here eyes poured into mine, brimming with love and need and longing.

My composure cracked, my failsafe defense finally reduced to ashes. Every last shackle holding me back clattered to the floor as I slid my hand up her cheek, into her hair, pulling her down on top of me. With shaking fingers, I popped the buttons on her blouse, adding it to the building pile of clothes on the floor. She smiled as I pushed back the curtain of red hair, running my thumb across her lower lip.

She wore a simple white, cotton bra, nothing like the lingerie he was used to, and yet, when his fingers trailed along the elastic band, he found it more invigorating than even the skimpiest lace. She arched her back as he unclasped it and slid it down her arms.

She blushed a brilliant shade of red, spreading from her cheeks down to her chest, and I kissed her, not giving her one moment to be embarrassed. Before she could work the snap on my pants, I flipped us over, hovering above to plant kisses into the soft skin of her neck, working my way down her collarbone and blowing on her nipple. "Jace!" Her fingers fisted the sheets, and I chuckled darkly.

She had no idea what she was in for.

I swirled my tongue around it, using one hand to give her other breast some attention while the other pulled the zipper on her skirt. I was certain we wouldn't be able to find half our clothes in the morning but couldn't find it in me to care as I dragged my tongue down her stomach, watching the way her chest rose and fell in rapid succession, working my way down to—

"Ice cream cones?" I smirked up at her, hooking a thumb through the cartoon panties as she pressed her palms into her eye sockets, groaning. "I like them!" I insisted, bumping my nose against clit to pull her from hiding. I used my face to nuzzle her thighs apart, placing wet, hot kisses to either leg before removing the cheeky undies. "I think I need a pair of these," I said, dangling them from my index finger.

"Shut up!" she grit out, but there was no venom in it as I ran my tongue along her center, her body jerking up to meet my face. I gripped her hips, holding her exactly where I wanted.

All embarrassment and attempts at hiding her gone as she stared at me brazenly, positioned between her legs, working my tongue and fingers against her.

I stared back, throbbing in my pants as her stomach tensed, her thighs pressing against my shoulders, seeking more friction. I pulled her roughly against me, circling her clit with my tongue as two fingers moved inside her.

She was loud.

Moaning, panting, chanting my name.

I'd never enjoyed watching someone's orgasm, especially when I wasn't cumming myself.

But Clary's face in that moment was the closest to heaven I'd ever be.

She didn't hesitate when she tore away my clothes, pulling me back up to her mouth. She didn't care that she could taste herself on my lips as she kissed me, desperately, hooking her heels around my back. I kissed her cheeks, her neck, any part of her that I could reach as she positioned me where she wanted me.

"Please," she whispered in my ear, and I nearly came undone. Who was I to ignore her wishes as I braced myself on myself on my forearms, pushing forward.

She bit her lip as she enveloped me in her warmth, looking up at me through lidded lashes, "You know," she breathed, "in one of my dreams, you had me pressed against the window."

"Next time," I told her as I reach between us, my thumb circling her roughly. I could feel her clench around me, her eyes wild with excitement, desperate for release. I waited until her head was thrown back before I leapt over the edge, greedily capturing her noises in my mouth.

I pulled her close to me, our chests rising and falling in synchronization.

Her eyelids droop, sated as she pillows her cheek in her hand. "I love you," she whispered, and I leaned over to kiss her nose, drawing the blankets over our naked bodies. I held her until her breathing evened out, soft snores filling the room.

It was a moment of calm, of vulnerability.

And I finally found it in myself to admit it.

"I'm afraid."

* * *

 _All my love,_

 _BallinBlonde21_


End file.
